By Michael Farinola

They run, through the silent night. Not a sound in the void there is heard.

They follow black and silent wings of two large and vigilant birds.

It's hard to know where the raven's fly, their path seems long ago set.

Their beaks do not smile, their eyes do not laugh, their minds do not yield or repent.

The wolves vary a great deal in appearance, one is large and reasonably intent.

Too large for a dog, too wild for a cage, his head remains playful but unbent.

The other is gaunt and starved, with bare muscle and exposed flesh does he run.

His claws scar the earth, his breath draws the sky; his hunger would consume even the sun.

Where go the ravens? Why follow the wolves? Why no sound as they silently run?

What are they doing? Who are they here for?

Why, oh why, do they run?