Wolves At the Gates

Tightly closed and bolted locks held the pack back from holding where it stood, baying, howling at the moon like wormwood; a curdling cry screeching at its fullness casting lit shadowy haunts orange red blood glow that taunts; an immense and eerie specter of the night scape drew the pack that gathered at the gate a far distant position of confrontational stalemate; lost to the wilderness that once was relegated in progress and time with freedom of the moon left to find. For Wolves and the Moon contest 8/13/18