There were whispers of a wolf in the wind.

The Wolf, the wind said.

The Wolf hunts at the night

For you, your children, your lives

 

There were whispers of a red woman.

The Woman with the crimson cloak, it said.

The Woman is fire, blazing the snow with an interminable torch,

With only ember eyes to show her humanity.

 

There were whispers of who the woman had lost.

He claimed her grandmother, it said.

He tore her heart from her chest, like a pirate takes treasure from the sea

Except he tossed it to the ground.

 

There were whispers of what the woman truly lost.

He claimed her own heart, it said.

And she claimed his.

They ripped at each other with false claws until only shredded organs remained.

 

There were whispers of the birds.

Because only birds could see the crimson cloak.

The Woman commanded with fire,

Ordering her fanned-out soldiers in red uniforms

To hide her and rain their own flames upon The Wolf.

 

There were more whispers of the birds.

Because only the birds could see The Wolf’s own cloak.

Soldiers in black, surrounding the alpha

Howling, shrieking, raging:

Bloodthirst, for the woman he could not reach.  

 

There were whispers of war waged.

A woman versus a man, decay versus death,

Blow for blow, blood for blood,

Until the story of The Woman and The Wolf,

Were only whispers in the wind.

 

But who really listens to the wind?