At first, she is certain that she dreams.
But the night is so vivid and her senses
sharp as a god’s. She scents the perfume
of oak, the spice of pine. Leaf mold
explodes beneath her bare feet, and
the moon is high, watching. It is late.
In her dream, she leaves the door
open and takes to the forest path,
occasionally startling at the sight
of something moving nearby, the shadow
of an enormous wolf that seems to be
pacing her. The moon is a mute witness.
It will say nothing when she shivers
out of her night-shape and shakes
her head, amazed. When she returns
to her bed, she lies on top of the sheets,
curled on her side. The huntsman’s arm
drops over her hips. He holds her there,
safe beside him, for the remainder
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