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Wednesday, April 24, 2013

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


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