Tag Archives: wolf


pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis



Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis

The Yellow Eyes

by Thomas Davis


The whiteness wailed with wind-swept waves of snow.
Upon the ice, a dozen miles from land,
The huge man walked into the vertigo
Of emptiness and bitter cold that spanned
Horizons darkening into a night
Intense with clouds that suffocated light.

He heard the wolf before he saw its eyes
Gleamed yellow in accumulating dark.
Its panting separated from the cries
Inside the wind so subtly that the spark
Of fear that nearly made his legs give way
Seemed like the rhythm of the dying day.

The great wolf, coat as black as anthracite,
Loomed like a shadow from a stinging wave
Of snow, a darkness darker than the night,
A vision dredged from dreams born in a grave.
A heavy tiredness weighed inside the man.
The wolf kept eyes upon the path he ran.

As hours passed hours the universe became
A movement shared between the man and wolf.
The storm died down. At dawn a yellow flame
Along the far horizon’s edge unveiled a roof
Of clouds that felt as if they were a vice
Pressed down upon the endless miles of ice.

The man kept staring at the white expanse
Stretched endlessly away from where they were.
He felt his spirit caught inside a trance
Transforming time into a senseless blur
Of wolf breath, gusts of wind, and running feet
Staccatoed pulsing through his heart’s strained beat.

As evening gathered up the winter skies,
The great wolf growled and shocked the man aware.
The yellow eyes looked deep into his eyes.
The storm swirled deep inside the untamed stare.
He stopped. The wolf stopped, growled so low
The storm stirred winds and stinging waves of snow—

And then the wolf was gone into the trees
That forested the hills above the rocky shore.
Alone, but near to land, still not at ease,
He walked toward the cedars bent before
Him like a haven from the plains of white
As suddenly the ice was bathed in light.


Years later, sitting by a council fire
As dancers danced the heartbeat of the drum,
A wailing howl rose from the forest, dire
As if the ending of the world had come.
The big man stood, the council’s patriarch,
And walked, without a word, into the dark.


Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis


a photograph by Sonja Bingen

Taken at the Wild Spirit Wolf Sanctuary in Candy Kitchen, New Mexico on July 16, 2012.


Filed under Art, Photography


by Ethel Mortenson Davis

and new snow
last night.

Black dog
on white,
two miles
into the woods,
and we see
timber wolf tracks.

Then sister wolf
flashes past us,
a great roaring ball
of white and gray
whose size
dwarfs you,

But we are
not afraid.
Just in awe.

To see a glimpse
of you
is like a gift,
like an eagle
taking off
into the air,
and we are lifted up.

I see a surprise
smile on your face.


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry

The Source

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

I am going deep within myself,
to where gates no longer open,
but instead
walls are crossed upon walls
between the four directions.
Here is where the wolf
cannot penetrate again,
and the lion cannot eat my flesh.

Like some wounded animal
that crawls back to his source,
I am going deep within myself
to find the cool stillness.
I will not come out again
until my skin has thickened.


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry