in Latvia, a charcoal wolf,
with fur like smoke,
rescues her cubs
bundled under felled trees,
masked in the emerald potsherds
from trees tall as lighthouses,
now stumps, marred root, nest dust.
one by one, she carries
her children, grasping them
gently with her young-moon teeth.
she could be a silver-haired mother
digging for her children
in a bombed city.
the wind is the largest room
she knows
and it is growing.