Wolves in the Canyon

During snow storms it is always the most quiet.
Sometimes as a child I would leave my bed
to walk out in the white padded dark
and sit at the canyon's edge, tucked neat
amongst the lacy shelter of tangled willows.

The voice of one wolf can split itself so that it sounds like
the voice of three,
so a small pack of wolves sounds like the most lonesome
chorus.
Sitting out at the canyon's edge,
looking out upon the still strange landscape of winter,
I knew their song.
I felt it deep in my belly.
Sometimes I was sick with it,
so heavy was it in me that all I could do
was open my mouth and let it call out.
It was instantly my comfort.
My own treasure harbored somewhere
behind my lungs, inside my heart.
It was the song of my soul, I imagined,
and I would lend it to the wolves
and sing with them in the still of midnight,
while my brothers lay sleeping,
beneath thick blankets of dreaming.

-Jewel Kilcher