Colorado Elk Turns Me Into Wolf

Mikey went to grab us some bush meat as the family & I prepared to depart he & Nay's enchanted Guerneville homestead. Christmas Eve day shade covered missions had us all in somewhat of a hurry, so Mikey lacked sufficent time and patience to dig for the pile of meat he usually gives from. That means we got a pack of the high-end Colorado elk steaks, which generated unnamed fears and reservation in my wife's appetite, while offering me the promise of edible adventure. I broiled them, both kids loved it, took me a minute to get used to, but then I felt the sinewy strength of the elk rise up within me. As my hair and nails grew my incisors swelled and pulsed to twinkling dog star waves of canine brilliance. I called Nay, told her that each steak ate like an Italian poem harvested with grace from the heyday of Italian poetry. Now I'm the new, post-elk me, the me that always lay within, waiting for the right revolution minute.

Swim in night netherworlds much more of late, since we joined a club with a picture perfect outdoor saltwater pool. Every sixth stroke I glance up at the moon and trees, then take the energy from that powerglance, dig a little faster, kick more like practicing Tae Kwon Do, terrific races for breath in howling winter wind. The moon takes me deeper within her transformative rays, caresses away whatever forgotten teardrop worries that placed these creases in my brow. The deep end of the pool stays warmer.