Up through the black mountains, hiding in the mist,
crouching in a graven cave, eyes blinking in the darkness,
lays a pack of wolves, a bond more fierce than the teeth
in their mouths. Their neutral fur blending together,
A round harvest moon, tinged with orange,
assembles with the stars,
furry chins nestling against the others' necks,
as the little pups breathe silent puffs in her fur.
Rich brown eyes hidden by lids as she snoozes,
lighter hazel swirling with hints of green in his
as he guards over his pack, his everythings,
as the dream king visits them in their slumbers.
For as a pack mate howls one last time at the moon,
The sun pushes the dark clouds away,
dragging along the oranges and reds and blues,
of life and movement and hearts beating, as one.
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