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13 Ways of Looking at a Wolf I A baying cry wakes the
man, the weary wolf runs on. The rats are in the
corn, the wolves are in the woods, and the rats are his. When the last wolf died,
man finally saw the world, dying slowly from his ignorance. The rabbit ran swiftly,
the wolf's breath on his heels, he slipped, and then the silence came. The wolf's pink, lolling tongue hung out, panting in the hot summer sun, pleasantly satisfied. VI Hiking though the woods,
over the rolling hills, he saw a wolf cub playing. The winter winds howled,
the wolf answered them, he ran on. Sitting by his camp
fire, singing to himself, darkness surrounds his ring of light, where he will build his
home, the wolf's spirit reaches out in the darkness, and touches his. Mowgli looked at his
father, the wolf. And smiled. The wolf lived in
freedom, he slept where he wished, ran in happiness, and was unafraid to die alone. The wolf tasted his
freshly killed prey, its body steamin in the cold air. He thanked the Great Spirit, it
tasted sweet. The wolf saw the hunter,
with bow raised. For the first time, he felt fear. The wolf ran on, behind him, time stopped. |