A cloud of black on a landscape
Of purity, raindrops of red
Falling staining the floor below.
They move collectively , but the
Seniority is but one. They sense
The shifting of light to dark as
The moon bathes upon their
Dark silhouette.
Singing upon the wind, to the
Sky, they call to their pack, as
The hunt begins, they guide,
Manoeuvre their intended
To that point of no return.
The white shaded with moments
That pass, the quarry is at that
Moment, where life becomes
Death, when last glimpses
Of white teeth tearing upon
Its delicate flesh.
A moment and then it's over
They howl upon the wind,
Hunger still cradles their
Insides. Baffled, puzzled, as
To what was done. It released
Itself to the wind, fell to the teeth
Of the cliff and then was gone.
Wolfs on the hunt, only to loose there prey to the teethes of the cliff, rather than be eaten..