Rain Wolf, West Coast Trail
It’s standing still at the edge
of a clearing, pale glacial
eyes narrow and lined in black,
the wolf’s kohl. The entire wolf
the thick kohl of my own eyes,
it brings jagged gray trees, stones
lying alive on the ground, rain
like a bead curtained doorway,
steel wool cloud and the dark’s sheen
sharp into my eyes. Without
any flaw in its fury,
a wolf of antimony,
it destroys impurities,
it eats the decrepit king
of my eyes and a reborn
king emerges from a fire,
the burned wolf hissing like rain
and shaking away the ash.
The trees have burned up, the wolf
lifts its nose to smoke, charcoal,
and licks the visible clean,
leaving the two pinpoint lights
of its eyes, dawn, gold-touched air.
I have always appreciated Russ’s poems. To catch up with these is a reminder of how talented and unique a poet he is. Chad Norman