I see before me now a traveling army halting,
Below a fertile valley spread, with barns and the orchards of
Behind, the terraced sides of a mountain, abrupt, in places rising
Broken, with rocks, with clinging cedars, with tall shapes dingily
The numerous camp-fires scatter’d near and far, some away up on
The shadowy forms of men and horses, looming, large-sized,
And over all the sky – the sky! far, far out of reach, studded,
breaking out, the eternal stars.
Walt Whitman, “Bivouac on a Mountain Side” from Leaves of Grass
Finally, she said: “I’m lonely” – it’s weird but you tell the wolves things, sometimes. You can’t help it, all these old wounds come open and suddenly you’re confessing to a wolf who never says anything back. She said: “I’m lonely,” and they ate her in the street.
Catherynne M. Valente, from “The Wolves of Brooklyn,” The Bread We Eat in Dreams