The Hunt

The Hunt


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