The soft glow of the frosted moon

Glistened upon the wolf’s silvery fur.

Hiding in the darkened bushes

In the hushed forest.

Ready to pounce on its grand prey

For a feast its pack will never forget.

At last, the prey is in sight

And with one long howl the pack emerges from the shadows.

One at a time, each wolf’s claw digs in the prey’s crimson flesh,

With blood trickling as if it were tears.

With a final screech of defeat, the beast falls at their paws

Dying on the forest’s floor.

Howling with satisfaction of their kill,

The pack carries off their prey ready for a filling meal.

The alpha remains back and peers into the clear, star-scattered sky

And with one final howl, he mourns and prays for the prey’s soul.