I skied beneath the light of the moon through forest and clearing my dog ahead startling rabbits and partridge to flight— to our mutual delight— Mars piercing the east south, Jupiter lying low sky and earth bathed in lustrous blue skis running quiet in the snow.
“Here dog” her eyes shining green in my lamp peering from the cedar stand, when another pair of green eyes appeared the night filling and tremoring with howls calls like angel’s cries lost between heaven and earth.
The wolf emerged as a vision from ink black shadows primordial power and mythical presence as old as the stars standing with regal bearing by the tree line expressionless, assured of its place and purpose.
My dog, victor of a hundred back-alley scraps stayed by my knee and I, with scarred knuckles and a jaunty eye held my breath.
I have yearned to enter the wonder of sun rise and sun set to breathe the silence of the full moon, to touch the stars wavering in the night to live in the eternal, moving spirit of beauty, yet I am apart, standing alone, a visitor.
Michael Buhler is the chaplain for the Northeastern Catholic District School Board, in Northern Ontario. He is the author of a collection of short stories, The Burden of Light.