The wolf pads softly after his prey

stealthily seeking a deer, keeping low;

for food or for sport, no one can say,

for his wise yellow eyes hide all that they know.

Avoiding every leaf and twig as he moves towards the doe

least they rustle or snap and give him away,

he moves as swift and silent as an arrow from a bow

moving ever-closer to his unknowing prey.

He leaps from the brush at the neck of the deer,

killing her instantly, exclusive of pain,

then feasts with abandon, without any fear,

for he is king, and in the forest, he reigns.

As the moon rose over the scene of the kill,

the only thing left was the blood on the hill.