the trail winds through the dry trees,
their branches high up and scraggy.
they peer from great heights at this interloper
daring to weave back and forth around the narrow trunks.
a wavering howl creeps through the high needles to the sky.
grey shadows appear.
never coming fully into vision,
always they pant at the edge of mind.
waiting for footsteps to falter.
but here they fly
firmly planting, they take me over the rough ground
while my ears strain for the first sounds of the rough whine.
out of the corner of my eye.
pulse quickening, i race on.
watching, waiting for the scent.
into the waiting pack.