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The Sounding of the Call

He loved to run and to creep in the woods.
He loved to run in the dim twilight of summer midnights.

Something called him.
One night the call, a long-drawn howl.
Like a sound heard before.

He dashed through the woods.
He drew closer to the cry.
He mused for a time, howling.

Now, he may be seen running at the head of the pack.
Through the pale moonlight or glimmering borealis.

As he sings the song of the pack.

Copyright © Bridget Williams