The People Complain

Deliverance.

I run through the dead, yellow hills,
the shade of the sun my guide.
My grey coat streaks between the white bleach trees,
the black and silver shavings giving relief,
blending me safe.

I am a free wolf.

Surrounded by smoking sand,
I gather with others to hunt.
Gleaned moisture steams from the ground.
All seems dry in the light.

We search between rocks for pools of relief
and seek marrow for our bones.
The fare is plenty, quickly earning distaste in abundance.
I crave after old lusts.

I remember the plenty of captivity,
the provision of my diligent masters;
I think nothing of the cages and pain
- only the meat I didn't hunt or request.

And I demanded rain.

As though thousands of fowl had flown over
and carried water on their wings,
so the ground caverned for the spilling.
Rot was the name of the land.

I prospered chains.

-----------------

Inspired by Numbers 11:4-20