A Den Of Seven Dying Wolves

A den of seven wolves
lay deep in eye glint comatose.
Stridor begged its pardon up from crackling lungs,
through shaking snouts; dabbed in gray,
thinning fur. Diamond hard air burning
deep through seven dried and crusting noses.
Seven similar scents rotted slowly
along side one another. The pack,
all alike in age and type, once fit
to hunt as a unit with precision and speed
felled against the dirt
of their rooted den.
The young appeared at the entrance
bathed in dawn
smiling wide with crystal blue eyes and moss damp paws.
A den of seven dying wolves looked to the pups
baring teeth and laughing amongst themselves.
Stagnant as an echoes deafened tone.
Ignorant of what passed before them.
Weeks will expire before they begin to gnaw on these bones.