Teaching Wolves

Written 2.22.26

I look out on a dry country of hills, where between the gaps I see, a hundred miles away, the snowy caps of some tall, flat range. I wonder why the snow is kept from my home, but given to the peaks out there. (But the truth is that it snows on Earth).

As I write this, Storm has finally split away, bored by my sedentariness. She is back at the short tree, trying to knock down whatever prize is in it. Smart dogs, when alone, get into mischief without fail. Indeed, beside me, Walter has begun to dig up the pine from its base. I suppose he hopes to topple it, to rid me of my shade and thus propel me onward. Both are anxious when still.

In this same spot, before returning to my book, I read on my phone about the oldest anatomical humans, found in Morocco, Ethiopia, and South Africa from around the same time and shortly after their advent.

Suppose how long we’ve intertwined our fates, that actually we taught this anxiety to the wolves?

That tree of Storm’s looks empty to me from every angle. Maybe it’s something in the roots?