Jackson Pollock, The She Wolf (c. 1943)

Wolf-Alice

Could this ragged girl with brindled lugs have spoken like we do she would have called herself a wolf, but she cannot speak, although she
howls because she is lonely -- yet `howl' is not the right word for it, since she is young enough to make the noise that pups do, bubbling,
delicious, like that of a panful of fat on the fire. Sometimes the sharp ears of her foster kindred hear her across the irreparable gulf of
absence; they answer her from faraway pine forest and the bald mountain rim. Their counterpoint crosses and criss-crosses the night
sky; they are trying to talk to her but they cannot do so because she does not understand their language even if she knows how to use it
for she is not a wolf herself, although suckled by wolves.
Her panting tongue hangs out; her red lips are thick and fresh. Her legs are long, lean and muscular. Her elbows, hands and knees are

thickly callused because she always runs on all fours. She never walks; she trots or gallops. Her pace is not our pace.
(...)She can net so much more of the world than we can through the fine, hairy, sensitive filters of her
nostrils that her poor eyesight does not trouble her. Her nose is sharper by night than our eyes are by day so it is the night she prefers, when
the cool reflected light of the moon does not make her eyes smart and draws out the various fragrances from the woodland where she wanders when she can.

(extract), Angela Carter