They gather.




They hail one another, all six of them, greeting





each other with extreme excitement.

The air is frigid. They do not mind.








They shake the falling flakes from their back, and they look around.

Suddenly, one of them picks up on something.




A caribou. Injured.

They assume their positions, running swiftly, silently.


The Alaskan wind sprays them with frost.













They continue.



Their meal is staggering along, infected and starving.






They know it will die.


It is a heartbreaking sight. But they don't notice it.









It is not that they are cruel.







It is that it is the way of life.

Half an hour later, they eat.










This is the last meal for one of them.


For weeks, she has staggered along behind them, trying to keep up with the pack.




She does not scratch out a bed with the rest of them.



Instead, she wanders into the woods. She will not return to her family.










They realize she is gone.

He howls for her.














His lifelong partner.


Gone.





Some say they do not love.

Some say they do not feel.




But they do.









More than humans.


The wolf feels.