The wolf stood, silver and sure, lone in the gloom. Piercing blue eyes held the world, understood more than ordinary. Knew the colour of loneliness, its taste. The wolf hunted esoteric knowledge. No brute instinct. A luminary being in fur and fangs. Eyes held the night’s secrets. Wolf sighed, winter breath curling. Mystique isn’t easy. The taste of solitude, bitter. No pack. No allegiance. Only the pursuit. The wolf ran, silhouetted against the silver moon. Knowledge the only hunt. And in the depths of those fierce eyes, a sadness nursed. A luminescent outsider in wild’s grim theater.