The window opens of its own accord.
He’s catapulted forward; waked.
Outside, the walnut tree is hung with wolves
Each to its branch; they watch him
Blankly. Stillness has its
Consequence. They are fat
As lambs ready for castration; round
As dogs; white as mother’s underdrawers.
Such tails! Thick tails
Perked and listening!
Blue snow rumples up the bedclothes; stiffens
Into plaster. This sky leads nowhere.
The child’s eyes are frozen like the window
They do not close; this tree
Is butchered at the crown; it will
Not grow.
The wind that frosts the room is welcome
Stirring like a scream and like a scream
It alters what it sees.
The wolves levitate.
What they know the child
Must discover.
Alysse Aallyn 
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