I Am Not A Monster

To be a wolf, and compassionate, in these times, is not a simple thing. 

To take on human form, at times against my will, is a burden.  It hurts.  A human body is narrow and tight, like being bound with chains. I would not wish it on anyone.

There are so many conflicting needs and desires and loyalties.  To howl and run at the head of the pack, over the frozen snow, chasing a deer and bringing her down in a snow-filled coulee, tasting that first hot spurt of blood from her throat:  there is nothing more lovely, more savory and sweet. 

There's so much in the life of a wolf that you cannot share, nor appreciate, nor even condone.  I accept that.

In human form, I stay on the periphery, the best place for a writer.  I owe my thirst for image and metaphor and the clashing splendour of words to no one, except time and fate and the changing weather.  Is every writer a wolf, disguised? 

When I disappear for a time, no one will notice.  Except my mate, the Wolf Goddess.

She is the blessing of my existence.  That I met and loved and mated with her is a mystery to me, but a fortunate one.  She scares me to this day, with her beauty and her power.  And still she loves me, she needs me:  the greatest mystery of all. 

I am quick and hairy and savage and fortunate. 

Against my will, a man, but first:  a wolf.