The Arrangement of Wolves and Men
The comprehensive green rolled in dramas of sculpted grass and lamentable assortments of prickly palm scrub. He stared into the darkness that coated the reservation conclave. The misfortune of his stigma sang in cherry red rhythms of pain and blood on his right arm. The wolf had nearly torn his arm off. Slavering and nearly rabid, it had hesitated as it nuzzled his exposed throat.
His conception, the moment of birth, laying on the warm sandy soil, bleeding in a breath of agony, he had been seized heart and soul by the arrangement between man and wolf. He had been diagnosed terminal a week earlier, now he lay dying, or so it seemed in the rocky savannahs of the tribal preserve. The symmetry of circumstance had been a full circle of regeneration and now, as he lay bleeding into the sand and parched soils of the desert his nails elongated and he found himself bristling with energy. He howled as exclamation of reclaimed strength and life, the spirit of endless futures. He shed the boundaries of human existence for the amber eyed love of the hunt, the taste of what's given to the purveyors of shadow and wild hungry abandon. He had found forever and the blessings of god in the shaped chance of an ethereal promise between man and wolf.
submitted at 12:36pm
17 August 2010