The Dream Cycle, 2008.4

Rust Red Wolf

Running quickly and silently through the forest; leave no tracks. Nose to the wind I can smell mossy scent of the earth, ferns growing all around me, a million smells of wildflowers - they are everywhere. I stop on a rocky outcropping and sniff again. Now I smell it, the scent of the wounded. Prey, running feverishly, trying to survive our Wild Hunt.

A ghostly howl rises up from the trees in the front and to the right of me. Another howl answers much more distant to the left of me. More howls rise up to challenge the winds and I add my own howl to the chorus. It's a war song. A battle song. A dirge for the fallen. An ode to the prey.

At once we all break into a full run through the primeval forest. At a full gait, panting yet exhilirated. The fur on my paws is a rusty red color, I'm sure that is the color of my soul. The stag comes into view, it's flanks torn by our previous attempt to drop the meal. It darts to and fro through the trees, hoping to lose the pursuit. It's of no use, wounded and terrified. We are hunters.