When wolves first meet up they have a ritual of smelling one other’s breath One wolf will put his nose to the mouth of another, asking What have you been hunting? The second wolf exhales thick breath, hot with blood and sulfur to explain, You can still smell the kill But nothing tells this story quite as well as a human. My father took me hunting every autumn Crouched down in the forest beside him, I felt the gravity of this genre, the deepness of its roots extending so far beyond men. It was the sensation of soil working its way into the grooves of my skin, the crunch of detritus underfoot. It becomes a type of language, like a prayer In college, I would later learn some theories which suggest that the human kiss began as a mouth-to-mouth greeting like that of the wolf. I knew this immediately to be true; my father is a wolf. Always quick and deliberate; gutting his animal in perfect technique. He taught me how to split open the ribcage and reach inside— you have to grab the heart and sever the moorings. But still, there is a right way and a wrong way to kill an animal.