Aback Grey Wolf

Grey Wolf is my steed, the winds they blow
as blue tassel blankets shiver under snow
we race through avalanche and quaking fir
as harts, hinds and bears awake, they stir
the woods into frenzy, Baba Yaga’s gates
close at dusk, and we surely must placate
the iron-toothed witch whose gift we take
to the Northern Lights where auroras shake
the sun sets, sky empty, fire burning late
we arrive at her door, the crone salivates.

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