Mist peels off the mountain
like old skin,
and the breath of the earth
smells like fern.

Beneath trees that remember,
bare feet pressed into moss,
women rise.
Eyes full of rivers,
hair snared with pine needles and wind.

The wolves are waiting,
silent as falling ash,
their ribs echoing hunger.

Together they move,
not as a pack,
but a storm of flesh and fur.

The lake opens her dark mouth
and takes in their reflections
without question.