The Look

A point of focus. There.
The dog’s eye, fixed.
She crouches, belly on grass.
Not to kill; to bewitch.
A foreleg forward.
Then the rear – slowly.
The chin lowers
and the quarry recoils,
fear in her yellow eyes.
This is not a dog, it is a
forebear – wolf’s mind
imparting terror;
what might be;
howls of ages, screaming
from two dark unblinking eyes

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