I don’t know much about wolves. Biologically, they are related to dogs — both members of the genus Canis. They are also related to coyotes — though coyotes are generally heftier with pointier, foxlike snouts. They are social creatures that travel in packs. They howl at night. I once house sat on a small lake in Washington State and it was common to hear wolves howl. Howls call and chill and warn. Howls scare and hover and sing. If you have heard them, you know what I mean. They haunt. Haunting in the way that being alone makes me light candles. Haunting in the way mystery creeps and oozes and shakes. Haunting in the way it is impossible to forget the sound. The mythical import of wolves fascinates me, too. Cultures from all over the world tell wolf stories and have wolf legends. Like witches protecting their young. Like warriors carrying the weight of Gods into battle. Like wanderers deciding to feed good or evil.

A few weeks before we moved into our home, Canis Rufus was installed outside our back door. This public artwork — crafted in brick, wood, and steel to celebrate the wedding of a writer and an artist living in the certified historic brick factory/art gallery house across the street from us — greets me every day. The all of all means everything. Let me explain. The myths are true. The wolves stand guard. The wolves weave neighborhood history. The wolves testify to love. The wolves howl a city’s howl. The wolves pay attention to the changing seasons and railroad rhythm of people heading wherever they are heading on the trail. I have decided they are good wolves, being fed by the goodness we choose in our lives. If I believed in coincidence, I would say the wolves appeared at the exact perfect time and place. Art speaking directly to us in our deep pain and questions. Let it be beauty. Let it be comfort. Let it be magic.