Tara Borin

Alone in our cabin again
since before sunrise;
the baby cries and sleeps and
cries.

Yardful of dogs goes off
like someone’s here:
I look out and see

a wolf

a gasp
at the edge of the clearing,
its head a heavy dark wedge
splitting hoarfrost shiver
like birch logs split in snapping cold.

I’ve heard they send a young one out
to befriend the dogs,
playful for a few days until trust
is born then
draw them out into the bush
to the ravenous pack.

Let them draw me out
instead.
I’ll stoke the fire then
tuck the puling baby,
a perfect stove-length,
into the wood box
with waiting logs;
leave breakfast dishes
unwashed in the sink,
dogs chained in the yard.

My tracks in snow
behind the shrewd wolf
my note.