Awake at 3 AM to cold silence.
No music to disturb the night,
to let the wolf know I am about.
But the light gives me away,
now he sits, slavering, grunting
just outside the window where
I write. Crouching on the fresh
stump of a giant oak tree which
used to stand tall in that spot,
which used to creak and pop
when the wind blew strong,
unlike this quiescent morning
when nothing stirs but the wolf.
He wants into my house, tries to
sneak in on the soles of my shoes,
the surface of my hands. He wants
to settle down in front of my
heater, he wants food and drink
served to him. He wants my life.
The pack has been wandering,
hunting, sniffing out weakness,
stubbornness, sloppiness, the
slip-up and slipshod, those like me
who are overwhelmed by all the
precautions, warnings, admonitions.
Weary of the constant vigilance, of
being perpetually reminded that
the wolf is prepared to pounce
and we are supposed to be ready.