My pelt hides me in the snow, and only my paw tracks remain.
Endlessly running through the bare wintry forest of dead and dying trees.
A name. A time. A season.
I am living one.
All the others are gone, I am the last one, moving through the winter like a ghost.
The grey sky above me rains down snow, but I don't have time to notice.
The deep baying of hounds.
Quick and loud, they come after me, with fangs and fire both.
They hunt for me.
I leap over rocks, Over fallen logs and frozen streams,
But although I run, I know that there is no hope left.
They have driven me away from my home.
Where I grew up, where I was born, where my family was slayed in their sleep.
And only I survived.
Another gunshot, but this time it hits the target.
I scream an unearthly scream.
I fall, my pelt stained red,
And my pale blue eyes close for the last time.
I was the white wolf.
Last of my kind, killed on the snow, on a cold wintry day.