A Spider in the Pines, or listening to the Moon

Like a lone wolf I limp across the alpine. They can smell the blood; the pack is on to me. I leave little fires to find my way back, but the air is thin and the night is pressing down. I'm losing my way-they feed on the fear. The fires smolder, the snarling gets louder. My hair raised, teeth gnashing, I'm onto them. The storm gathers and the wounds heal. They smell the mountains coming together, I feel the lines blurring...

Sharpening my claws,

B.