(05) The Pack Comes Alive Poem by J.B. LeBuert

(05) The Pack Comes Alive

Rating: 2.8

The pack was growing stronger with each passing day,
They wanted their mother, but continued to play.
The time had now come for them to renew their hunt.
It wasn't love; it was inner drive, not a stunt.

Their senses put them on a path with game galore,
An old trail that their mother had taken before.
It was littered with many bones bleached by the sun.
They knew they were on a path that might be some fun.

The Shewolf was on a path of her very own;
Not thinking of the brood She had left alone.
She didn't realize that She was being tracked.
She only knew She had to eat, that was the fact.

She was two weeks ahead of her small brood of three.
She had done this before and assumed she was free.
This was the first time that her pups tried to follow,
They had survived without her, but they felt hollow.

The brood still wanted more of her love and training;
Without it their strong bond would shortly be waning.
The hunt was resumed with a lone thing on their mind
After killing and eating, their mother they'd find.

Now their bellies were full and they were feeling grand.
They were quickly gaining ground, their quest was at hand.
Now their mother could sense and feel their close presence.
She'd deal with them after eating these two pheasants.

The trail that they followed could never grow too stale
They would follow her to hell, through rain or through hail.
The urge to reunite was ultimately strong,
They knew that all together, is where they belong.

They caught up with the Shewolf, as dusk turned to dark.
The air was filled with loud yelps and many a bark.
The great howl that she rent, gave them all quite a fright;
Tonight they would play, there would be no vicious fight.

She knew that her daughters had traveled a long way.
Tomorrow they would bring death, tonight they would play.
The four, working as one, could easily survive.
Now they were back together, The Pack Comes Alive.

The fifth poem of the twenty poem Shewolf Saga. Each line of each poem contains twelve syllables and the title is the last words of each of the uniquely formatted poems.
J.B. LeBuert

J.B. LeBuert

Kenmore, New York
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