The wolves of Smyrna howl from their refuge to their
timber kin by the Boundary Waters, to the coyotes beyond
the fencing, to the yellow labs at the autobody shop.
We humans hear it and long to answer the call like
some futile response to untamed sorcery. We forage for
cow pies to pick psilocybin mushrooms and harvest
San Pedro cacti for mescaline to approach the edge
of the uncultivated, where we can glimpse the spiraling
secrets of blooming lilies and Mothman prophecies.
The colors of fall’s equinox make the shades of death
inch closer to the forest, swallowing sickly does
and starving rabbits to feed the patient fox and the flocks
of maggots. The Canada Geese announce their departure,
leaving the land on its own, to ride out the cold.
— WILL KEEVER
Back to the Review >
