The Wolves of Pacific Spirit

Shadows deepen, under the ferns.
Something is passing, a pack of wolves.
Breath condenses, joins the morning’s fog.
They pass unseen, over thick moss, unheard.

If you leave the safety of busier trails,
be careful where you stray.
Know that the pack is hunting, Autumn
has thinned the herds and the hunter’s belly.

So close to the comforts of cities,
yet under the cover of Douglas fir,
all grey things are stalking. All teeth
and hunger and breath at your shoulders, unknown.