In the end, the wolf tired of the game,
sore feet and hacking cough.
He had knocked down straw and twigs
And yet it went on.
Why him?
Where was his glory?
Ugh, Grandma and big eyes and
All those other hurtful tales.
What stories told of his kind and its triumphs?
What if he stopped playing?
What would they do then?
Wait for a knock at the door
That never came?
No, his was a proud race
They told stories of Gnarled Foot
and White Streak ....
Those were wolves!
And the pack!
How they roared through the valley
Taking only the best lambs.
They were not scrawny pretenders from the mountains
Who could not hunt.
No, he would not do it.
Not again
Not this time.
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