El Diablo Lobos

The insatiable hunger of the wolf stirs, a reflection of helpless prey moving, ignorant of set sights, across its warm and calculating eyes.   Thoughts of the kill consume the beast, and it determines from foresight that, though the urge to feed is strong, this one will be let go.  Even in his silent stalking, flames consume the heart of the wolf.  His passion for the hunt under a silver moon is boundless; the satisfaction of running a well tread path under the lamenting song of nocturnal owls and blowing foliage is enthralling.  Its ancestors hailing from a time when the world was consumed by the blinding ice, three hundred thousand years of wisdom passed down through the ages have positioned him at the apex of balance and control.

It’s presence of mind unmatched, a fresh scent flows into his brain causing his eyes to water, his mouth to salivate.  The new mark is nearly two hundred fifty yards to the east, but the westerly wind carried the message to him through the oaken branches of the thick woodland canopy.  It was time to move.  As though pulled by a demon of fire, the wolf presses heavy paws into soft earth like somber war drums.  Dark leaves reflect teal blue under the pale moonlight, evening mist materializing in translucent beams that illuminate the forest floor.  A quickening pace sets in as the spoil comes into view, ears pressed firmly against dew laden fur, lips bare the death dealers.  A cloud of breath passes through his teeth as he dashes and leaps over a moss covered log toward the prey.  Now realizing the danger, but all too late, the prey’s eyes widen in fear and acceptance of the inevitable events which are about to transpire…. It slumps to the ground, soundlessly, in utter defeat.

The wolf stands in an opening in the forest trees, lunar shadow cast over the prey in respect and appreciation.  His head lifts towards swift clouds as he sends a mournful call into the wild, signaling brethren and paying tribute to the bounty.

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