The wolf cries boy and no one comes running. Not the first time, not any time after that. Every full moon an empty howl fills a sky darker than the bottom of his feet.
He’s been running for too long – dirty and distant – running wild rings around the haunting.
Night descends in a furious wash of colour. Not a timid shower but a flood of blood and violence. His solace hides in a sympathetic sky and his pleads become the wolf.
The boy cries wolf and everyone comes running. To point fingers and to watch the fight.