David Pratt Tracks Freezing rain, all day, rain and regret for the disappearing winter, skiing among snow-loaded pines while she pointed out the tracks of moose and elk; I looked for those of wolf, but never saw them. She waited at the top of hills, face glowing at twenty below, until at last I could keep up with her. Later we drank hot wine by the fireplace in my isolated house among the birches by the frozen lake. The sound changes on the window. It's snowing, straight down like shredded cloth. The phone rings. An unfamiliar voice. It’s hers: ice and anger, something I've said or done, or not said, not done. They have come for me then, these ghosts, once more to prowl about my sleepless bed. In the blurred morning I go out, and see at once all round the house the deeply printed tracks of wolves.
Photograph by Marie-lynn Hammond
Issue 02
Devour: Art and Lit Canada
39