The high of wolves night
Glowing stark trees night
When you consider
Turning leaves
Monstrous in dream of barren slopes
Howling again
Leftover meat torn from what was once alive
When you consider
Guts abandoned
Smells of death and ripped apart
Fallen by the worrying away
Of hunger driving high behaviour
When you consider
The gain of many
The ruin of one or more hidden away
Rocks fall through the dead branches
Of forbidden places covered
Rustling creatures furtive now here and there
When you consider
Birth in blood and quivering suckling bodies
New moon, no shining above
Dark wolf nights running formations
Scratching and digging
Soft earth against the hard place
When you consider
Smells of life where rain pelts down
Telling tails of tooth and claw
Ranges of wilderness
Worn down and built up
Of roots and trees lined
With expectant new brood
When you consider
The turning of it all