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A lone wolf holing out from across the prairie.
Roaming the night, which ever way the wind may carry.
His cries of longing haunt me, during the fitful night.
As he sings a single lonesome song beneath the starlight.
It’s an eerie, soul aching sound.
Beneath the yellow moon, bright and round.
I’ve seen him running free, across the plain, but always alone.
I can feel his ache, in the hollow sound of a midnight moan.
His life is that of one, just to survive.
Doing only what he must to stay alive.
He doesn’t run with the pack, because they can’t keep up.
He’s an outsider, a loner since he was a pup.
He searches the night, over the fields and creeks.
I wonder what it is he still seeks?
Is he searching for the companionship he is yet to find.
Does he long for another? One of his own kind?
Is this the loneliness that keeps him out on the prowl?
Does it build inside until he must moan and howl?
He beckons me, for I am drawn to him.
Until I must steal glimpses of  him in the moonlight dim.
For he reminds me of the companionship that I lack.
The wolf who runs with out a pack.








Sarah Comstock
April 17th 2001

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