Seasons of the Wolf

In the wide-eyed innocence of puppy hood he heralds all the sweet promises of Spring; flush with strength. He chases white snowshoe hares and brown bush-tailed squirrels but it is good that Mother provides. He captures none. Time passes as it does and the world turns orange with fallen leaves at the stirring gasps of Autumns breath; here he discovers maturity, patience and knowledge that good things come to he who waits. He stalks the hillside with a hunter's refinement and dines on deer-flesh for supper. Mother would be proud. Winter draws ever nearer, whispering of the slow desertion of vitality. The world turns white. The winds bite is bitter cold and he learns wisdom with the graying of his fur; that stilling confidence of age that banks the yapping of unseasoned cubs.

Winter has come;

and it is time to sleep.