must hunt down the wolves to exhaustion. Follow his trail and noted the brands fresh in the wet earth, broken twigs, white clusters of white hair glistening in the brambles. Also feel, grime and ammonia, the hints of iron and rust puddle of blood, where it stopped. Bent forward, his face tense, scraped by the lower branches, a hand thrown back, the other arm and reinforce themselves flying the side, chasing the interweaving of lianas and young shoots fat. Focus on your breathing, to distinguish the beast of humus, the foam of the beast. Of breath, chest raised violently, by a sudden, stop, listen, scrutinize between sunlight chaotic by midges thousands, to look out for the slightest tremor, the thrill of the hunted animal. Be both predator and prey, think for both, his flight to transparency overlay to our race. It almost jealous of the ease of his status as hunted animal. For the wolf, one goal, his whole being turned into a single, blind, abandoned by instinct, nothing around him is important.
Earth sickly, dry grain and rough scree overflowing onto the footpath, mushrooms and green gray saturating the air heavy with their fragrance flawed. Greasy droppings and puddles of mud wallow where gray boars. Raise the head and contemplate the slow dance of the peaks, moments of silence disturbed by the creaking of the shoot millennium. The clearing gaping open before us, bathed in red light. Leaves whirl, ignite and burn by touching the grass slow. At the center of the clearing, lying on its side, head resting on a stump, the beast is waiting, resigned. The sun rekindles its fire-mane and his eyes go black lightning.
Sit before him, looking at him, pass his hand over the hair sticky with blood between her ears. Let it sleep.
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