Gentle wolf that prays against the moon's silver crystal shroud.
Her sharp profile etched against a crisp November, cloudless, starfilled sky.
Steam bellowing from her heart as she tearfully invokes her prayers back to Zeus,
and all of the Gods she thinks might listen to her mournful cry.
Does she pray,
or does she nostalgically calls to her long ago departed mother who nuzzled and caressed her on long ago forgotten soft and distant winter nights.
Does she mourn the pain that all of her loved ones have endured, or will endure,
so long as the mutant race called man continues it's long journey, which sometimes is, to self destruct.
Is the wolf's gray cludfilled heart just following her path in life, to thus fullfill her role in her universe without question,
or is she fighting to mark a portion of her existence in that path that all of mortal creatures must traverse.
One answer remains in her heart, that even in her infinitesimal role in this maze of puzzles we call life, she, astride the moon, her gentle profile etched against the purple sky, stood majestically alone, with the heavenly horizon at her beck and call.