As he approached me, gazing into my soul with those haunting yellow eyes, I asked him, "Brother wolf. Why is it that you cry to the moon?"
And standing on his rock, with a pose so noble in appearance, he looked toward the moon, then back at me as if to say, "What you hear as crying, to my kind is a prayer. A song to honor my grandfather, his grandfather and all my ancestors that walked these lands since the beginning of time. It is there in the heavens where their spirits now hunt, giving light upon my path so that I may find my way in the darkness."
He then looked back at me one final time with those seemingly ancient, knowing eyes and went on to resume his own hunt.
Soon afterwards, as I got up to go, I looked down the hill. And there before me in the silvery radiance of the full moon was the path which led back down to the village, and onward to home. And since that chilly Alaskan night on the hilltop so long ago, I have never again looked upon the moon quite the same.
