Dark shadows in the timber,
Gray wraiths in the bright moonlight,
On icy crusts, and packed sled trails,
Running forty miles a night.
They chased mice and hares all summer,
Caught one crippled cow last fall.
In the deep powder snow of December,
They seldom ate at all.
From the bunchgrass to the timberline,
From river breaks to muskeg flat,
When snow gets deep and crusty,
The wolves start getting fat!
Other articles by Mike Puhallo