He thinks it rude to interrupt
her walk, enthralled as she is by the forest around her.
Her cloak flits over her shoulders, her slender back,
the sun peeking through the canopy to play across her face
as she skips along with strange purpose.
She must be headed somewhere wonderful,
he reasons.
And when she spies him in the trees,
and smiles, he shies away,
and pretends he is otherwise occupied.
He has not the time for conversation with beautiful girls carrying baskets of food.
The Small Kindly Wolf starved to death,
alone in the shadows,
Manners dressed in wolf’s clothing.
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