(17) The Very Long Winter Poem by J.B. LeBuert

(17) The Very Long Winter

Rating: 2.8

The immense cave they had found was better than most.
Each Shewolf had her own comfy chamber to host.
This year the snow came south to this forsaken land.
Hewolf was anxious and tense, but still in command.

The winter winds and now blizzards grew truly fierce.
It froze out, but into the cave it did not pierce.
Hewolf tried to feed all, and put on his death mask.
He was a master killer, quite up to the task.

They hunted over many square miles of bleak ground.
It was covered with some huge drifts, often snowbound.
They concentrated their hunt on small elk and deer.
They would return quite often, to their lair this year.

The wolves kept the bones in a separate large room.
Found later by humans, it resembled a tomb.
Two months after mating, the little pups were born.
A dozen new mouths to feed, what did this forewarn?

Now the pack was sixteen and didn't have to preen.
The spring was at hand and the wolves' senses real keen.
The cave was now brimming with pups, quite voracious.
The den was big at first, but now, not so spacious.

As the spring advanced they all cavorted outside.
As amazing as it was, no pups had yet died.
The wolf pack was now a force to be reckoned with.
Each wolf had forty-two teeth, which is not a myth.

Often with pups, more times than not, half of them die.
So far this family had nothing go awry.
As the pups grew, the summer winds began to blow.
They were growing quickly and now ready to go.

Back south they would travel, to the land of the gold.
The humans were there, but they would return, quite bold.
They slaughtered on the way, at their own discretion.
Killing was natural, almost a profession.

As they drew close to their home, they found some spillage.
The pack settled down, upriver from the village.
He had led them to safety, the Hewolf sprinter.
It was in the past now, The Very Long Winter.

The seventeenth 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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