The trees are skeletons against the moon,
Humming a lonely and a hollow tune.
The frost is biting at the ancient bark,
As shadows deepen in the velvet dark.
And then it rises—long and sharp and clear,
A sound that tastes of sorrow and of fear.
A single voice against the frozen night,
Searching for a ghost of faded light.
It isn't hunger, and it isn't rage,
But a prisoner pacing in a silver cage.
The howl is carried on the mountain wind,
A mourning for the kin it cannot find.
Between the pine trees and the jagged stone,
The alpha stands, magnificently lone.
An echo of a life that used to be,
A wild spirit that was never free.
The woods stay silent till the echoes die,
Beneath the watchful, cold, and starry sky.
The forest knows what humans cannot see:
The weight of standing tall and being free.