The lone wolf lies
wounded in his lair
as errant strands of morning
drift up like mist from hollows
deep and full with dew

The trap lies closed upon him
and the chain broken
wet with blood and bits of fur
that cling to sharpened spikes
that bite and rend and tear

He cannot move
but groans in sleep
the howl forgotten
and the pack that moves on
to high hill at midnight
cries silver on the wind

He moves in dreams of pursuit
the hare frenzied in flight
the running of the deer
the wild eyed doe
and frightened fawn
brought to earth
beneath dark moon

Silent now, he sleeps
hoary head on bed of leaves
broken bones betrayed
by cold hard steel
and the sun a torment and a liar
indifferent informant
duplicitous guide
to the men with trucks
and nets
and darts
and cages