''To Be a Wolf''
The scent of blood is a flood through the pines.
A tsunami of mystery, curiosity, yet danger.
Questions arise from the dark, with the moon being the only light.
The echo of our howls linger in the memory of the heretic soul.
The moon, it's light, not a fright-but a call.
To answer it, with hope to not fall.
Random poem I wrote during a field trip.