Spring

The melting snow had barely now revived the placid creeks, gray-coated wolves were keen to hump the loins of those who would be proud to show off bellies in the Spring. There would be solemn sheep, aghast against the breeze, and welcoming the yellow fangs of masters that had come to claim their prey today. No creature seemed to dwell on what the meaning of it all could be, as chaos ruled it spat its righteous mist into mosquito skies. To die without a whisper there and then. Who'd hear the cries? A solitary squirrel, bushy-tailed, slipped sliding down the path of sullen clay. No wolf would ever get its precious hide, at least until the dawn of yet another day.