Another moon turns,
and the wolf howls.
It is the long season.
The lean time.
The fat of winter,
no longer succoring.
The hunger waxes
before the Sun parades.
These are the lean times;
where the prey is sparse,
but it is slow when caught
and easily frightened.
Soon the prairie
will bear its young,
and the forests will dance
their mating ritual.
Blood to be born,
and blood to live;
but no one gets fat
on the hunt.
Awakening
with the first shoots
and the river flow,
is the hunger;
precious hunger.
There is no greater feeling
than knowing
you are still alive.
HG – 2020
