When the night waned, and the moon was full, I heard it calling on the wind.
I heard the wolf song.
Old and enchanted. Lilting and intoning. Bidding me to run, to hide, to go forth. Bidding that I get up, that I not be still, that I look.
That I find.
Follow the hollow in the forest’s mound,
Follow it deep, deep underground.
Wolves tell the tales of the things hiding in the dark,
Wolves tell because others cannot, death to the lark.
Death to the lark.
Continue reading “Wolf Song”
It was a leaf.
One singular leaf.
And it fell.
Speaking only in a whisper as it went. Its last cry carried on the wind that took it from its place, its home. It was just the one leaf, falling through the breeze. Calling to me, warning me, as it did.
He is not the same.
That’s what the leaf said.
He is not who you think him to be.
Was the echo the wind gave. Words that spoke of fall, of seasons changing. Words that carried truth to them. A resounding, hollow ring.
I will tell you something that few know:
A forest on the verge of death can only speak truth. It has been that way since always. Since forever. An ancient law, as old and bright as the sun. Which is how I knew:
He was not who I thought he was. Continue reading “Cold Comes the Lie”
It was dark. Hollow.
As I took the steps precariously with my limited eyes, I could feel them. Boring into me. Stars that winked, even in the dark. Unseen eyes that knew what I did not. Whose eyes understood further than my own could ever hope to reach.
Those eyes on me—knowing, waiting, watchful eyes—I continued the dark trek.
Entering the Temple of the Moon. Continue reading “The Moonlands”
We were wolves, basking in the glow of the moonlight. Chasing autumn’s heels as winter froze our game. Hungry bellies that ached beneath the warmth of our fur, our smoking breaths, our hopeful howls. We huddled through the cold, cobbling warmth together with beating hearts and heated blood. When spring came, we were the first to greet it. Singing praises to the melting snow and the blooming life. All things renewed in our meadows, filling us to the brim with new scents, new trails. And we stayed through summer as well, panting through the sun’s burden of heat. Powering through so that we might blend with the colors of autumn once again.
We were wolves.
And things were beautiful.
It was not perfect.
It was not easy.
It was life.
And it was good.
We were wolves. Together under the gaze of the forgiving moon. Hidden along the trees’ shadows, watchful and hopeful with every passing season. Looking forward to the future together with our eyes looking past the skies.
Now I’m unsure.
The foreign scent brings me grief. Filling me to the brim with something akin to summer’s heat, yet, it leaves me empty like winter’s bared teeth. This strange, familiar shape I see…
This change brings a season I’ve never heard of before. Winds that jar my senses with the foreign scent it brings.
And I don’t know anymore.
If we are not wolves…
Who will we be? Continue reading “Forging Seasons”
“What is it?”
I can say nothing.
I don’t know what it is. Why I’ve stopped dead in my tracks. Where that tugging sensation came from, or who. All I know is:
I felt it.
Beating along this string tether. Making my stomach quake. The hollows of my bones sing as the wind breezes through me, and I feel the drum beat in time with my heart.
No, I say nothing.
I’ve no idea what this is. Continue reading “Waking Willows”
There are rules to dark forests.
Rule number one: never take directions from an owl. Trust me, just… don’t.
Rule number two: never stoop to pick up anything shiny. If it’s not a trap, then the shiny thing is almost certainly cursed. Either way, it doesn’t end well for you.
And, rule number three:
Never turn your back to a dead tree.
Continue reading “Beware the Trees”
The ghost breathes. A wind that chills me. Turns the temperature down.
And here I was, wandering about clueless.
Thinking that I was alone. Continue reading “Gentle Darkness, Soft Light”
At the time, I was nowhere near him.
When I heard the voice roll off the mountain, I thought I was hearing things. Whisperings of the wind. Coyotes cackling at me, trying to play tricks on my mind. Or, perhaps it was a bear roaring. His voice blasting so far and wide that it distorted. That it sounded like a person shouting.
It was no wind, no bear, no coyote. It was not a trick, and it was not in my mind.
Because he spoke again.
Yelled once more.
And I knew:
He was calling to me.
The wilderness itself.
It calls to me.
What choice did I have but to run?
Continue reading “Calling”
When I see the red smoke, I count the tendrils.
And, every time, the number is smaller. The smoke climbing higher. The days drawing closer.
They will come for me.
They will come for me.
And, when they do, I’ll be waiting.
I’ll be waiting. Continue reading “What The Smoke Says”
The door was closed.
The fox had the key.
A thief of nature. An ancient burglar. Quick-witted, swift. A natural in the forest.
The fox had the key.
In a forest filled with candles. Brightly lit against the dusk, the falling sky. They glowed gently, shimmered. Lit the fox’s eyes so I knew exactly what he was thinking.
It wasn’t good.
Continue reading “Wax Forest, The Fox, and Me”