Last night, the wolf ran with me awhile; it had been too long, and it was good.
Last night, I saw the earth call to the wolf, the ravens, and the eagle, calling the wind that bore them to her breast, and under her breast, as a hawk to the hand, naming and naming until the wind, and will, and dust coalesced to a man-shape—back so long that it couldn't've been "past", only "ago". This, too, was good.
This morning, the local mated pair of ravens laughs as they fly past my window: new memory and old thought winging together. This, too, is good.