A Lone Wolf

A twig snaps, and the lone wolf notices the moon hanging above him. Bright, resilient, alone. A testament to the night, a product, but certainly not an ornament.

It hangs high in an open sky, and below a wandering wolf ever so slightly marks the snow, navigating the familiar and unknown terrian of the woods. With an acute sense of smell, the wolf knows it is unfollowed and alone. His bushy tail whips the snow playfully as he prowls on.

Heading deeper into the corridors of the forest, beyond the streams of crystallized ice and snow, and towards an untold destination, his awareness is clear and spotless as the surface white. The mass in the sky illuminates the way ahead, refracting light off the snows and exposing new, shimmering pathways. This fierce but furry creature spots some shelter ahead.

A fallen oak tree sprawls out across the forest floor. Abandoned and suitable for a wolf's crawlspace. He squeezes his body into the open tree trunk. Fitted in this hollow log the wolf stares into the darkness for some time, until finally falling asleep.

The beast slumbers, but does not dream. His focus burns intensely like a white inferno, dispelling all hallucination. It is himself, the night, and a radiant moon above. All coexisting, in this dreamless sleep.

And yet, perhaps this very scene plays part of another far off wanderers sleepless dream. The world has yet to realize the secrets of such a night.