by Louis Marvin
Even a vicious killer of fawn and men, dances in the golden field. Even an old wolf, shunned wolf, howling lonely in the night wolf, dances in the golden fields.
A wolf with scars of wars and battles, testerone fueled, growing old and arthritic, can dance in the golden field.
A wolf, unable to participate in the pack mentality, unable to give an inch, dances in the golden field.
Others of a different breed, stop to admire the dancing four legged fool, staying in the underbrush and out of sight. They admire one without a seeming care in the world, that can dance in the moon's glow, in a golden field.
For him it is his rose to smell, his child to smile at, his wind to feel, his meal to savor, his wine to slowly sup, his beauty to take in. This silly, fun, like nobody is around to see it, dance in the golden field.
And at dances end, we reestablish our place in the world. We slide on that expressionless mask again. We leave the golden field for the dark of night.
Last updated July 06, 2015