Today I think about my benevolent dead.
They did not live
to see this shame
but lived through
something wicked once.
As expected, now the wolves.
The sun rose in a different way—unexpected—
but rose nonetheless, blood first,
as the farthest horizon tells,
in a way onrushing.
The smallest legs
on the crawling fears, fur-twitch
and nerve scribble, warm
from the star’s distant promise
filtered through what miasma
a sky can make when choked.
The light neither reddens like blood
nor rust nor burnt leaf-edge nor crust
of feathers. Call it a new red,
cut from a creature
newly known, unshadowed,
with teeth unexpected
where they are long, and claws
sharp, reliable, as expected.