Kneeling in a wheat field, one knee supports her arm.
The long gun in her grip looks comfortable there.
A single curl spills from beneath her knitted cap.
She looks directly at us, just a hint of smile.

The Saskatchewan prairie stretches out behind,
Grass rolling like the sea, the dust bowl years ahead.
The wolf in front of her might almost be asleep.
Stretch’d out in prairie grass, head on its paws, just so.

The gun, long as the wolf, tells us another tale.
The context is now lost but we might risk a guess.
Mayhap it prowl’d after her chickens, or her kids.
If so, she was more than equal to the challenge.

Did my great-grandmother shoot this great beast herself?
I’d like to think she did. In truth, we do not know.
All we do know is that she dyed the varmint’s pelt.
The wolf became a hat and coat, the tail a muff.

Lorena lived a good long time, I knew her well.
My gentle great-grandma, age kept her to her chair.
I often brought her pansies and played at her feet.
Doubtless I lay down in the grass, just like the wolf.

I never saw the photo while she lived, alas.
Never heard the tale. Did she slay the big bad wolf?
Looking into her eyes, I have no doubt she did.
I'll tell my daughter so, great-great-gran killed the wolf.

Prepared for BQ16 (226) and to promote Photograph of a Lady, Circa 1890 for Lost Gems of Yesteryear: Odyssey Two. Compare and contrast!

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