I Want This to Be a Praise Poem

It was September. The cottonwoods
edging yellow, the willows waving their
medallions over the bank of the river.
There was the good sky, unusually sunny,
with a lingering golden warmth. The spruce
up the hill a strong green. On the trail
between the river and the forest, stood
a lone wolf, ears forward and attentive
to the water, his amber coat like a
mottled nugget. He was so close I could see
his guard hairs ruffling when he trotted
to the river. I suppose I should have
been afraid. Or felt chosen, lucky, like
I’d won the lottery. Instead, I thought

of the stuffed black wolf my grandfather had
mounted on a large gray rock with a plaque
of his victory. As a child, I could not
help but run my hands along its back, down
its shins to wide feet. The black fur so thick
I couldn't press a finger deep enough
to skin. That wolf was small compared to this
gilded one, who must have known I was there,
yet he never glanced my way. The truth is,
though I walk this way nearly every day,
I rarely think of that golden wolf. I think
more about the dead wolf and the fortune
it embodied, the horror and grief, but
also the secret thrill of its marble eyes.