Grey wolf

The greying beast howls.
His cry splits the night.
Distant longing, like a scent
lingering of something that maybe,
just maybe, once was
more than just a fleet footed thought.

Hunter and prey would run together,
it was foretold.
Hunter and prey would dance,
Paw and feather as one.
But for how long?
And it is done, the dance, is done.

Grey fur shakes off a bitter chill,
no sun to warm these darkened days,
no nest, matted and soaked in constant rain,
no lair in which to find some rest.
The skies, empty, match his tone.
The pack pauses, calls to him,
He answers.
Turns to go, and just before
Looks up hoping he is not alone.