VIII. Wolf Songs   All that matters, when the harvest moon Cries, "Oh!" to see us running in the dark, Is the bite of cold, puppy sharp, the tune We harmonize while slave dogs bark. We are the free tribe. We celebrate the bark Of bitches calling us to play; we tune Our hunger, singing deer or gopher in the dark; Ours the free fields, the trees, the crying moon. All that matters, moving through the dark, Sentinels all, noses drinking from the bark The mark of passing stranger, like a tune Mis-keyed, like metal polished by the moon; All that matters, as we dance our joyous strife Is the crackling taste of winter, wondrous life.