“Many groves from here,
Upon a still September Morn’,
The Wolves of Wood lay in wait upon a limestone bluff overlooking the Pastures of Man, on which The Flocks would graze. The Flocks ever changing dynamic kept the Wolves eyes busy as they dwell in their cunning. But cunning would not fill empty bellies, and The Winter had come dreadfully premature in season.
The Wolves of Wood nemesis lie not only in the frost-ridden wind. For you see, amongst The Pastures lay The Dogs of Man who guarded The Flock to their final breath. Bitter wars between the two ensued in times of drought or famine, for The Dogs of Man and Wolves of Wood had been foes for as long as either could recall.
A banshees gust blew needles of pain into the Wolves pelts, yet the Wolves of Wood remained atop their limestone tower. The Wolves weren’t prepared to take on The Dogs of Man, whom outnumbered them six over three. Their fangs remained in contempt while The Flock slumbered soundly.
Time passed in short steps in such weather, and the Wolves of Wood grew ever the more impatient. After a few sharp glances about and a whiff of the air, they descended the limestone bluff to the Pastures of Man below.
On the first howl,
The Wolves of Wood charged head on for a gap among the Dogs of Man. But the Dogs of Man were on alert, and chased the Wolves of Wood off beyond the Pastures. The first bark of the hounds concluded they were equal of foot.
On the second howl,
The Wolves of Wood broke formation to take hide in opposing ends of The Pastures of Man. The first was on North, the second on South, the third on East. First, the Wolf on North charged in diversion and drew the Dogs of Man West into the Wood. Then, the Wolf on South charged in distraction, yet the Dogs of Man had not all followed the Wolf on North, and the remaining Dogs made no attempt to chase the foe. Anticipating a third, The Dogs of Man drew him out of his East bush, and the Wolves of Wood retreated once more. The second bark of the hounds concluded they were equal in cunning.
On the third howl,
The Wolves of Wood bare fang for not The Flock, but for The Dogs of Man. The foes battled with fierce blood, but the Dogs of Man had an overwhelming ferocity in numbers. The Wolves of Wood retreated again, all mortally wounded. The third bark of the hounds concluded they were of equal fang.
The Wolves of Wood felt the icy grip of death fall upon the blood soaked limbs. But yet they did not leave The Pastures of Man.
On the fourth howl,
it was not a howl at all. Strangely, it was a bark. Now this puzzled The Dogs of Man, who stood guard ready for their charge. But charge they did not. For they approached the Dogs of Man with fangs closed and tail between quarters, all limping. The Wolves of Wood barked once more, and then proceeded into the Wood. Curious, The Dogs of Man proceeded into the Wood not far behind. But in mind of The Flock, always kept sight of three.
They traveled far from The Pastures of Man among the chills of morning and stench of blood. They eventually came upon The Stream of Truth. It’s waters sparkled with flashing diamond suns on surface, a beauty unaccustomed to The Dogs of Man. For The Man had never commanded them to seek such an oasis out.
The Wolves of Wood continued acting strangely, as they lay on bank staring at The Stream of Truth’s cool running currents. The Dogs of Man approached their foes carefully to see what had caught hold of their interest. They sat adjacent to The Wolves of Wood in a fine row and looked directly into The Stream of Truth. Oddly enough, upon it’s reflection were not six Dogs of Man as they were, but nine Wolves of Wood. The fourth bark of the hounds was not a bark at all, but a howl that concluded that they were brethren.
The Pastures of Man lay vacant of guardian, and The Flock grazed upon it with greed. They devoured not only pastures but Flowers of Bee, Berries of Rabbit, and Nests of Bird. They ate with no regard for The Wood, as they did not think The Dogs of Man were there to stop them.
But The Flock had erred. The Dogs of Man were indeed there, hiding amongst brush with cunning; in six different positions of eliptical ambush. They charged The Flock on foot, and attacked with fang. A final bark of triumph broke the Bonds of Man as they tasted blood for the first time.
Perhaps, if you had been sitting upon the limestone bluff later that night, you would give testament to a gathering of the wild. Far beyond the jaded pastures, deep in the wood upon silver banks of stream, they would be: Six sillhouettes of wolves above three fallen brothers, dancing wildly bare-fanged, howling at Luna in sorrow, celebration, and redemption. Then,
A final howl you would have heard piercing the dead of night, concluding they were at last free:
AAAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW
And so it happened
Many groves from here
Upon a still September moon
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