...... Part 2 ......
With muzzled growl and shriekin’ howl,
the wolf’s outstretched, defendin’,
His snout upturned, and moon discerned,
he’s whiffed a waft a’ wendin’;
With fragrant hint, the wolf’s a’ sprint,
the pack begins t’ rally,
With swift descent he’s on the scent,
a’ flowin’ down the valley.
The pack moves on behind the dawn,
the wolf beyond horizon;
A she-wolf vets his silhouettes
each time she lays her eyes on.
On trek discreet, a track is beat
across the rivers frozen -
When day’s complete, just ice to eat,
a choice that’s often chosen.
A stillness jeers the shaggy ears
(one droopin’ down, hung over),
Where caribou are scratchin’ through
and seekin’ blades o’ clover;
The wearied pack picks up the track,
with stony stomachs pangin’,
’Tween barren trees beyond the seas,
with ice like daggers hangin’.
The wolf, though white, still hounds the night,
the pack stays close behind ’im;
The caribou, in his purview,
seem far too far to mind ’im;
Above, a baleful moonbeam wails,
“oh god he’s gonna’ catch ’em”
The scene is grim, the Reaper dim,
the night has gone to fetch ’im.
A moanin’ mynah’s cryin’ loud,
a wide-eyed owl’s a’ screechin’
A bird of prey’s a’ prayin’ proud,
a raven bird’s a’ preachin’;
The wolf, unrushed, is breathin’ hushed,
his hollow eyes a’ narrowin’
And focused hard in fixed regard
on herds they’ve been a’ harrowin’.
The morning breeze begins t’ freeze,
the branches break in silence,
A poundin’ storm, a haggard swarm,
like hurricanes of violence;
The herd’s surprised and paralyzed
all over hell’s half acre -
The leadin’ buck’s run out of luck,
he’s soon to meet his maker.
...... Continued in Part 3 ......