Hope

Winter had sunk her claws deep into the forest. With little else to do at the ebb of the year, she's wrapped herself in her pinny and retreated to her kitchen, to turn her cold hand to the art of patisserie. In the main, she favours simple, bold designs, and has blanketed this corner of the earth in thick snow.

The wolf pack moved in unison, their hearts beating as one. Should a hunter pierce the ribs of this one, you almost feel certain that that one over there will yelp with pain. Should this one be fortunate enough to assuage that hunger gnawing his belly, that one will surely lick her chops lazily and enjoy a nap, fully sated.

The air is sharp in every pair of lungs, and each panting outbreath is marked by a frosty plume. Muscles and bones nestled deep under generous coats of fur nevertheless ache for the warmth of spring. Damp noses miss the scent of young shoots, and wide, furry paws are ready for the rustle of fresh leaves underfoot. Winter has been bitter and long. Only a mammal with a solid stone heart doesn't yearn for thawing and renewal, for some warmth from the flinty sun. Even the coldest and darkest winters must eventually give way to light, warmth, and new life.