August: Opening Howl / Inner Sky

[mnemosyne]

White though she is, no one would ever miss take her for a ghost, not even here in the shadow of her packbrother. Sylph, yes. The moon-made-flesh and given form to walk the earth for a baking summer night, oh yes.

There is a darting tension about her even in her lupine form that makes her feel finely drawn, taut, intense.

Or maybe that intensity is coming from elsewhere. Rising, building, pooling - in and around the ancient ground, shot through with memories both lingering and faded and forgotten, tasting of summer, the ache of high summer, where the earth bakes but the sun has started to turn away its face and the everything is verdant and the prey is fat and getting fatter,

all in preparation for the winter-to-come.

--

Small and slight and fine and fast. Too much tension - in the air, below the skin - for them to be playful as they run, but they are wolves and there is always a kind of vying.

They run. In this they are almost physically matched. Even beneath the vying they move with the thoughtless concert of pack.

--

When they come to the place where they have been called - like the rest, they howl.

Part of the rising, eerie, tangled dissonance rising across the land.