All summer now, the wolves have sang
when the spirit compels them. In morning
or late into evening, they use their own
language to test their existence;
sky listens, so do birds hidden in
bougainvillea vines gnarled, twisted
and bleeding bright- reddened blooms.
Do they understand, as deeply? As ear
of the soul wrestles with meaning
in nature's primitive cries, what God
they are speaking to... so I pray with
human tongue in the quiet of night.
We may not be so different, wolves,
birds, the tangled vines. The fire
required to heat a cooling horizon
is but a sound, a question, a need
to sing, to sing, to sing.
