The wolf bellowed at the dusk.
On the precipice he stood, wild like the wind
Lightning eyes, reflection of the coming storm
Clutching harsh soil with tired claws
He almost stumbled but held on
Withers wrung, close to his fall

The cry was grief, imploring wail like the rain
Drops flowing over tangled gray
Painting the earth like a canvas of dark
The din was lost in the flurry and surge
Met with no reply in the inky, empty gloom

Beaten back by thunder, choking on his breath
As the silence returned, eye of the storm
His brothers still fighting and dreaming
While the scars split open in frozen pain
The redwood falls, like a gavel
As the wolf is quiet and the sun does not rise.