His wife had died.
A grown son was gone, left for a life far away.
He thought on how the years had been, as he searched for the end of day.
He loved the passing of the night and what the new day would hold.
For now, he'd rejoice in the sunset with its colors of orange, pink and gold.
He waited for the spiritual vision, he knew would take him soon.
He would be free of pain again and race to greet the moon.
He'd become a wolf once more;
racing as one, that led the pack, head straight,
body moving with the wind, and never looking back.
Leaping, snarling, leading all,
his mouth a toothy yellow grin;
a challenging growl coming up from within---
an enemy of men.
Reaching the tip of a mountain, tilting his chin to the sky,
he'd call to his Ancestors who waited for him to die.
He'd sing of cowboys they'd battled,
and wars that they had won;
of how he longed to join them, but his years were not yet done.
The Ancestors thought him handsome, in this wolf body that he wore.
They sorrowed that he must return
and walk the human shore.
Soon another day would come, for this aging Indian man,
when his vision would not go away.
He'd be part of a higher plan.
He'd again become a wolf-dog, leading the wildest pack,
run with the wind right into the sky,
away from his run down shack.
He'd join his tribe. He'd see his wife.
He'd be old and gaunt no more;
but a pain free wild young wolf,
who'd fled this earthly shore.
For now he'd rejoice in the sunset,
with its colors of orange, pink and gold.
He'd wait for what night would bring him,
and whatever tomorrow would hold.
By Vickey Stamps (copyrighted)