Read: The Werewolf Epic
the idol of her peers? But lo, the tale
told of this wolf predates even myself,
how should it then be but this newborn babe?
Interpreting this sinister event
better elucidation do I need.
A touch of wind, seen in a lengthy patch
of unmown grass—the budded stalks bowing—
and heard in its soft, bare footfalls running
between the trees, first brings swift chills along
the hunter’s back, and dancing on from there
unto the hut’s still unlatched door it comes.
The spirit so opens the door, the wolf,
careless, left unsecured. The woodsman thus:
Perhaps a fool, I’ll go in there, and chance
I’ve seen a sign. From death tonight, now once
escaped, I in no small ways dread, but more,
more so than death, a lower state I fear.