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Canines

“I wanted you to see it,” my Mother shrugs, muffled through the locked door between us of the red wolf circling her child with hunger and aims in its eye.
But it was only a dream from which I fell, tumbling, and yet, curiosity killed the tom kitten who, hearing the howl and bark from the pine trees sprang from his slumber pawed the screen and gave chase – trapped before even reaching the wood.
Only a dream and yet, there are mornings when I wake beneath windows to the yip, to the snarl of coydogs at mess and find I’m unable to lift clear the latch.
It’s then I remember that old, weary haunt – the deadbolt, the canines my Mother had wanted so badly to bare – and concede, perhaps maybe the foxjaws weren’t lonesome
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