them slouched low and wild beneath
the spruce boughs where the snow
was old and hard by their spectral ranks
working the margins,
out of sight from me,
my heaving in the drifts,
the yellow flight of their eyes
speculating my burden,
the burning in my thighs,
my breath in rapid plumes
They were gone when the snap of twigs
drew me among them,
black hair in course strands,
a signature freely given to me
from the alpha who pissed in the blue
wells of my passing
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