The Wolf and the Moon

The most carnivorous wolf calls unto the soft moon.

It’s late into the breadths of night and I know of wolves that walk to the edges of the cliff.

Their tails swing and their snouts rise in anticipation to speak.

Tonight without a person in sight, he gazes at the beaming moon.

At the stroke of twelve, the hills and valleys await for someone to speak of something new.

A lone wolf is heard and his call echoes into the inky blackness.

From afar, trekkers hear and tremble at the sheer sound of either triumph or attack.

Is nighttime a state for illusions?

I see she smiles back at the canine beast, gazing at the lay people hustling on a land predicated on simply surviving.

When the last call reaches the edges of the scarred landscape, he trots back to the base, his ears unfaltering to stand straight, his jaws unfailing to gnash toward anyone that may shudder to look him in the face and waits for the next full moon.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If you would like to support my writing, please consider liking my story, subscribing, pledging and/or tipping. Thank you for reading!