Wolves wandering in the night,
The presence of the hunter is felt.

They begin to feel their time grows near,
And seek to find a place to hide.

A gunshot rings out through the air,
They know for sure the hunter is near.

One looks down upon a comrade dead,
and can do no more than shake it's head.

One more shot and it was dead,
No comrades left to shake their heads.

By Margaret Wardlaw

 

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