Wednesday, April 24, 2013
A flash of silver,
A glimmer of gold,
A low growl,
In the midst of the cold.
The smell of the hunt,
The howl of victory,
The life-giving flesh,
The prey’s whereabouts no longer a mystery.
The long trek up the mountains,
The warmth of the cave,
The nuzzling and licking,
The feeling of having nothing to crave.
At the spine-shivering chorus of the pack’s howls,
The moon seems to jump with fright,
Then the night turns quiet again,
This is the thrill of a wolf’s hunt.
Tori Bannister Aged 11