It is night in the deep, evergreen of the forest. The moon casts its shades of silver across snow, across the twisted mountains, softening their jagged edges with a touch of soft silver. The trees waver and speckle the glittering snow with a gentle cascade of moonlight. The shadows melt and shift with the wind’s soft kiss. Away, in the distance, a lone figure ambles towards the forest. It pads softly upon the angel down, and breathes deeply of the silver air. Its eyes dazzle and smolder with night life and feral anticipation. The moon gently lowers a soft veil upon the figure, and a wolf appears from the shadows.

The wolf’s maw is opened in a half-grin, and its tapered silvers catch the moon’s reflection now and then. It’s tongue lolls out in a puff of warm breath that appears from its mouth every five seconds. Its gentle, grizzled fur ripples in the silver breeze. It is a long, winter coat, fit only for the wilds of the Alaskan tundra. It gently thrusts its paws forward, pushing them deep into the snow. Little fluffs of down jump in the air, and float softly down upon the night breeze. The wolf’s perfect, arctic-blue eyes glow like lamp-lit stars upon the velvet sky.

The wolf slows its never-ending trot, and regards the night air with a slight sniff. It takes in the sweet smell of snow, the gentle sprinkle of moonlight, and the citrus breeze of the pines. All of them familiar to the lone, arctic traveler. All of them familiar to the native wolf. The wolf stops now, thrusting a black paw into the feathery dust. It stands still for a moment, and takes in all the sounds. The whisper of the snow, the soft beckoning of the moon, the ghost-like echo of the wind, and the faint tinkling of the pines. Once again, all in order, all familiar, and never changing. The wolf lowers its erected ears, and takes in the sights, just to make sure. The wolf can see the deep shadows of the trees, the soft sparkle of the snow, the slight grey of the wind, and the silver sphere of a prefect full moon. Yes, all is in order. And the wolf trots on

The wolf trots at its familiar pace, and comes upon a hilly landscape. It takes a quick glance around, and puts the vision of a soaring elevation in its mind’s eye. It trots on, and through the snow. It pushes forward, and keeps at its pace. Its pace never changes; not a step slower, nor a step ahead of its pace. It creeps upon the hillside, and its shadow flutters in the moonlight. The snow tumbles away in soft puffs, and the wolf comes upon the flattened summit. It stops to gaze upon the beautiful, snow-laden valley: the valley breathes with silver wind, as it dips, dives, and thrusts itself into the air, following a path only birds could perform. Trees, evergreen and tall, waver and wrench in the silver gusts. Snow forms a perfect blanket along the bottom of the valley, and an ice-blue, frozen lake reflects a perfect, mirrored image of the arctic sky. And as if it weren’t beautiful enough, streaks of light suddenly explode in hues of green, blue, orange, and gold across the dark, tundra heavens. The whole valley glows with its painted light, and the wolf’s eyes glow with a reflection of perfect beauty.

The wolf lifts its head, and points its sleek muzzle into the stars. It gently closes its eyes, and sings a familiar song. A song which fills the whole tundra with gentle, mysterious beauty.  It draws out, like a string of notes, and wraps itself around the peaks of mountains, around the trunks of pines, and glides silently across the snowy valley.  Then it dips into the mirror of the lake, and propels itself to the moon's surface.  It gently outlines the moon, then weaves to and fro across the surface, until the moon is coated in the wolf's song.  The song dies away as the moon glows brighter, and the wolf lowers its head as the silver fades to nothingness.