Mystic Wolf

THE WOLF IN MORNING

A soft river of moody, gray mist swirls

amid the awakening cries of early dawn

like flickering tails of restless snakes.

Solitary tree limbs poke through this thick

blanket of misery and lonely thoughts, as if

they were forlorn heads of hungry sea serpents.

A primitive world of danger and heartbreak.

Two unblinking orbs of golden, amber pearls,

now dangerously alert and ravenous,

float softly within a deep ocean of mystery.

Golden, searching eyes of a hungry wolf flow

forth through glittering mist and fog.

His personae all powerful and frightening as

the timber wolf’s domain stretches and stirs.

A forlorn owl hoots a mournful, dire warning

of imminent peril to some unsuspecting prey.

Death and fear slowly emerge from a curtain

of eerie mystique upon this very tense morning.

Wild, slanting, predatory eyes blend together with his

all-white cheeks and tawny-gray muzzle as his

short ears flit at the harsh cry of an angry blue jay.

The soupy mist clears apart as if upon demand.

For the wolf is ruler! He is Master!

A nosey raven “kaughs” out in raucous displeasure.

With wide, savage head swiveling from side to side

he strides on long, powerful legs to the cliff’s edge.

Eyes gleaming in anticipation, he growls at the sky

baying mournfully at the fading neon moon with pride.

Massive head tossed back at the now yellow sunrise,

his ethereal beauty etching the sky in stark profile,

a deep, resonating howl sings out to the pack.

For he is the Alpha male, supreme and virile.

From the surrounding forest floats the haunting

echoes of his family, his most powerful allies.

Lips pulled back in a grin with long, curving fangs

gleaming, he hears the savage call of the wild.

It is now time to attack!

© Kerry Marzock

mystic wolf kerry l marzock

THE PACK HUNTS

The pack merges together like shivering ghosts.

Each is a separately unique, killing machine,

but as a unit they are a most powerful host.

Ravenous with its’ steely determination,

the dizzying, wild scent of moose lies

tantalizing on the morning breeze.

Six large timber wolves glide gracefully

down a lonely forest path, intent on prey.

Sinister shadows slicing through the quiet,

morning stillness like poisonous, gray arrows.

Muskrats, squirrels, rabbits quiver in frozen fear,

but on this day their lives will be spared.

Upon the barren crest of a treeless, knobby hill

the pack magically splits apart on silent command,

rules of the hunt etched on golden eyes of the hunter.

Below, old and alone, a large bull moose

awaits its’ fate, but not without one last stand.

He will fight to the death per nature’s will.

Like a savage horde surrounding their victim,

the wolves circle, heads held low on massive necks.

Amber eyes glaring, grimacing mouths open,

deadly fangs gleaming at the anticipated kill.

The bull moose snorts, pawing angrily at the ground

as the Alpha lunges forward, death expected.

With life’s blood gushing from severed jugular,

heart of the moose beats on, struggling to survive.

The Alpha’s mate leaps for the tiring withers

as others attack the legs, impossible now to thrive.

The moose succumbs amid deadly shivers,

bowing to the law of nature, the battle all but over.

With his gray muzzle and fangs now stained a blood red,

he has tasted the spirit of a moose once more.

Hungry pack gathers around, awaiting their turn to feed.

The Alpha reaches skyward and howls in victory.

A soulful, haunting lament. A call of the wild.

The Pack now fed, runs free!

© Kerry Marzock