ENCOUNTER IN THE NORTH WOODS

    by Cappy Love Hanson


My husband--who, as a kid, used to set out 
to get lost and did once, having to climb 
a white pine to spot the single
exposed curve of the road where it humped
up like a muskie’s back--

who, having lived into his twenties 
in northern Wisconsin without seeing a single 
timber wolf outside a cage at the Chicago Zoo--

says, Don’t hit the-- and chokes on dog
as the wolf trots across the two-lane, shadow 
angling out behind him like a whole 
new slant on canine--

as he pauses on the gravel shoulder and glares 
as if offended by the error, then merges 
into the woods on the far side 
of the highway cut the way a drop 
of rain merges into a lake--

while we--separated from him by our metallic
skin, the speed at which we travel only paved
paths, the grasping for things that can not fill
our bellies or give us shelter for the light
rain that’s started to fall--

chastened by those amber eyes, we only glance 
at each other as I let out the clutch and slink 
on toward his mother’s white clapboard cabin, 
a hot shower, and a microwaved meal.