Wolves Cry

Dark grey strands of fur
Ripple past the trees.
You see them quickly,
Blink and they’ll be gone.
Hard to think, really,
When you meet that flash
Of gold between the ferns.
Fierce grace as they run,
Fiery beauty staring you down.

‘Your choice’ they say,
‘Will make mine.’
A blink, but no more.
Forwards or backwards –
Run or attack.

You’d probably prefer ‘run’.

Later, when the sun has set,
After moonrise.
A high, animalistic call
Shrouds the night,
The wolves cry.