“There is absolutely no call to learn to read when one can smell meat a mile off.”

Mikhail Bulgakov, Heart of a Dog.

A dog in the night bays at the moon

shedding its light upon the blood upon the stones.

A wolf divided from the pack, cut off,

alone, at home, petted by human beings,

howls at the wild

yearned for yet feared.

The wolf unwolfed is just a little nothing.

A dog pointless without a man to guide.

Sniffing about yet with no taste for blood.

It curls into a ball. Yelps. Dies.

As eagles hover impatient overhead.