White Wolves Watching from a Walnut Tree

They were quite white watching me from a walnut tree.
I wanted to return one day, but that soft sweet smell
balled up in a fist, six or seven of them in mid-winter,
in the sharp cold turned away, black sky radiant
yellow from a sunglare on the camera lens of your eyeball,
green as grass but white, white as white moon, full,
can’t eat no more. I think I just about heard them,
their voices, speaking no words grunting sex-noises,
the crepuscular Casablanca, Here’s looking at you,
bushy tails like a fox’s. Believe me I believe it were real,
but even when the sky is blue I can’t tell what’s a bird and what’s a kite.
They swoop above the wolves who notice them a slight,
their eyes peep, their white bodies, shaggy and sleek,
tough sinew of muscle at the hind, the royalty of thick fur at the neck
and chest. They are light. Their noise vanishes a while, and it’s just me
hearing something in myself.

Michael Holloway