The Middle-lands

Sometimes I drink myself,
deep wells of water drowning my insides and pouring back out as rivers  
that seek you out and egg you on,    
inciting you
to chase,  
bounding as stag in heat  
across the guts of wide, open hillside.  
I hear your throat reverberating my name -  
top of challenging Tor,  
caught and carried upon vast, cutting winds,    
salted and frosted in unpredictable air.    

I don't call back,  
I don't dare.  

My heart wiser, taught by time, steadied on song,  
mind though, still too small and young,  
castle not built well enough for any
who might come with an axe and an intention -
and I dream  
careless,
hungerless dreams.  
 
A wolf gone vegan  
laying quietly in the nevermore  
waiting for her time  
to come again  
and then
  
the hunting will begin.