The wolf

Silent, the wolf sat. The moon runs a finger through the shining hair sliding down his back. Alone, his paws prod across the undergrowth. Surrounded by a grove of trees, he only wanted to be understood. Gone were his pack, his tribe, those who stood by him. Intense eyes, watching, waiting. A majestic painting framed by an intricate outlay. A leaf falls to the ground. The forest breathes. Hardly noticeable to the unseen eye, his ears perk up ever so slightly. The chilled evening air whispers secrets to his charcoal nose. Lines ripple through the glossy coat worn across his back. Licking his lips, attent, he waits. Then ever so soft, comes a sound. Like breath, it glides through the trees. Slowly the whisper grows to a murmur, a mumble. The grounds starts to shake. A rumble, ever so slight. The trees start to sway in its wake. A call, a howl so great. Filling up his chest, the wolf sits still, taking it in. His ears then lay back as he embraces the sound. His muscles tighten, he moves like light. Under the moon he flies. Past the old juniper tree, the cave, the lullaby stream. Beneath the waterfall, over the ridge, the sunset plateau. Guided only by the sound, he follows his brethren. Pat, pat, pound, the ground sings beneath his feet. Free in the night he glides. Away from the place he knows, those who could never see beneath him. Into the unknown he soars, one purpose in mind, filling his soul.


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