At first I watch you

with the patience of a yearling deer standing 

on the edge of a wooded road, among familiar

ferns and branches, spots on my anonymous flank 

blending me with the herd 

and with the fallen leaves.

                           I'm hidden here

in a crowd of bystanders, drawn closely about me 

like autumn road-side rushes.  Fresh antlers 

are punching through my forehead's skin; I'm staring 

at this oncoming light, knowing a certain destruction 

awaits me on the road.  

                      Boldly 

wearing your wolf-claws, you draw me 

to forsake forest, to step onto the deadly asphalt, 

to seek the company of a hunter. I approach you softly 

walking through your wall of wolf-scent;

I smell the buck beneath.  

                           You and I dance, 

our pulse drums up dawn, percussive 

former solos become counterpoint. 

                                   You leave 

marks on my skin; I don't know whether 

the remaining itch is the desire to return

and be hunted again, or just reaction, 

just raspberry gashes of a close call with a predator

on my skin, in my head—

                       a spreading rash 

that brings no pain but makes me wish 

we could make a single beast of prey 

and predator, larger than either of our skins.