Upon rough trod earth and decaying leaves.
Through tangled bushes and falling streams.
Creak of willow, the rush of wind, anticipation closing in.
A silver wisp beneath the hunter’s moon, a silent shadow when in gloom.
Scent of fear in the air, growing as the beast draws near.
Ripping flesh, gnashing bone. The wolven hunter shall not atone.
A poem by Furrion 17