Colored Wolf, Legends of the Wolves

Should I, mere a rabbit of sand, shiny hair, sport a shock of fur mired in clay, they from gofer mounds, propped on to peer, would sound warning through the sun glades and sleep grotto shades. “A pall fellow lights whereupon we here graze. See ye lithely to him yield path. He in bone pastel smocks with such likeness to bare plodeth sloughs dank, decay’s fell morass.” “This chap’s marks are slurred, kindred ‘s smudged,” they’ll say, “in a mud that is not of our warren. He looks sullied by drear earthen labyrinths far ‘way, perhaps fox hole, cat hovel, or den of wolves’ coven.” For when foul skies do strike, marring trees with their curses, rains fall to douse scintillate branches. A pungency hovers where a torrid sludge cools. Its paste casts forbidden clan hues. Now the wolf craves not easily his like or lean. He is wary of ghouls in his ranks. “Gaunt swagger, I see,” he’ll think, “This one leave be, who with me, shares the gore and the grisly.” For in drab sheens to drape, shall the countenance daunt. Browns besmirched will, in ashes, urge, “Yay, it is he colored wolf.” In airs Lupus, I’ll steep, strutting meekness purged, brave in cloak gray.