There’s not nearly enough
Wolf in me.  Not enough
ferocity, not enough
pack loyalty, not enough
startle response and care
for the world’s savagery
and bounty.

And as for Coyote, the smaller cousin,
the Trickster dog of dream and myth —
no, I’ve searched, and no bone of mine
holds that holy canine within.

In the search, I found
the spirit animal I leak from my pores
when fear slides into the bedroom
and reposes at my feet:

a snail or slug, unsure of which but a cold slimer,
an afterthought drip from the God
who gave up on me for mammal’s ways
and instead said: this one will know
how progress is inexorable but excruciating,
how its trail can be followed
back, slowly, to its source;  will understand
the nature of small and unnoticed lives
and the damage  that can be done in the dark,
as ravaging as any drama and howling attack.

There are thanks to be offered, I’m sure,
but the longing for more overwhelms me now,
and I have no mouth or throat
to scream for a change. 

All I can do
is crawl and hope no weight from above
hovers nearby.