Winter

The Icewolf stands at the crest of a hill at the edge of the trees, moon and bright stars the inside of a speckled and heavenly egg that encloses the world and disappears behind the dark silhouettes of craggy peaks that line the horizon. The air and snow and trees are glowing with a spiritual blueness, and even His shaggy white coat, frosted, shines with an unholy light.

He surveys the snow-driven valley extending just beyond the gentle rise, and no sound or movement or wind disturbs the frozen scene. He is, if not alone, the emperor of this landscape. None can challenge his sovereignty here, for he is young, strong and smart, and so he must be to even survive, much less rule. In these cold recesses of snow, death's grip strikes fast and without remorse; and the Icewolf is often the instrument of that fell grasp- memories of chases, heart throbbing throughout his body, pulsing with his footfalls as he and his prey weave around the trees, around the uncovered patches of ground that speak of another season, past the icy cold rivulet of water that cuts through the snow. Suddenly, the small creature turns sharply, but it is too late: every muscle of the Icewolf's body has already moved to intercept, even before he himself realizes it. And it is over. The beating heart takes time to subside, to shrink it's pulsing until it is again in the background.

The snow is receding; it is not as deep as it was before, and the rivulet has become a stream, carrying the melted ice elsewhere. Every morning, more birds sing invisibly from the trees. And the time will come when the men return, and he will be nothing more than a wolf again.

For now, though, his is the expanse of the horizon; a kingdom of snow and ice which he lords over. And he runs down the rise, into the plain, and his is the only sound.