Savage joy willed the wolf's heart, running with the moon, his paws rustling the leaves atop the grass as he went.

 The great Edinburgh skies flashed past above the trees, as the pack moved on, grateful for a chance against captivity.

 All that matters now was to fulfill his longing to run beneath the moon, breath-takingly cold and bright, to howl with savage joy.

 The wolves looked like something out of a painting, or a dream, now. Standing up, heads upraised, listening to sounds human ears couldn't.

 The wolves howled. It wasn't deep or gluttoral; it was a social howl, maybe a response to an unknown wolf.

 Eventually, the howl rose and fell with a long slide at the end. There was primeval beauty to it, a longing that resonated in the wolves' souls.

 The look in the wolves' eyes were hungry, primal as it always was when it feels the moon rising, waiting, calling for it...

 When the moon calls, her children must answer.