Wolfsong

[image from whitewolfphotos.blogspot.com]

He came to the mouth

of her cave

in the dead of winter,

peering tentatively in

at the warmth

of her 

crackling fire.

She sat still

as a stone

to invite him,

lifted a  bird-wing

towards him,       

higher,

shared her meal

with him,

their new

friendship a-borning;

slept and wakened,

finding him 

still there

in the 
morning.

Together

they wandered 

springtime

forest trails,

sought summer fields

of richly golden grain,

roamed

wild beaches

lashed with storm,

sheltered from 

the lashing rain,

hunted under

sunny skies,

loped across

the grassy range,

shared fish,

and rabbits,

birds and berries,
laughing
and joyous,

as the seasons
slowly 

changed.

They sat by

the fire

on lonely midnights,

howling at the moon.

But  warm summer

nights pass

quickly;

and the winter

comes

too soon.

His snout, her hair

turned white

with winter's chill.

His body grew

aged and weak,

as old bodies will.

They came to a fork

in the path

in the

rising dawn.

He stopped,

and turned

for one last look,

then  was gone.

His was the wolf path,

where a human

may not follow.

She took the path

to the right,

her heart

aching, 

and hollow.

She cried

with the fading

of the night's

last star,

whispered

"thank you"

to his fleeting back:
grateful

he had guided her

this far.

Sometimes,

now,

she can feel

his spirit

on the

rising wind.

Some nights

you can hear

her keening

on the air.

Then soft comes

a faint echo

from deep

in the mountains,

ringing.

When the moon is right

and the spirits awake,

you can

sometimes

hear them,

singing.