Beneath the tops of forest trees,
Bathed in pale moonlight,
Live the creatures of the night,
With wary eyes of gold.
They whisk through the cold snow
Without so much as a whimper.
They stalk their prey with patience--
Watching, waiting, wanting....
They hide within the shadows,
Ghosts amidst the taiga.
Fur bristling, ears prickling,
They keep their wits about them.
And like a chorus they do sing,
With howls of every sound.
Indeed, they are most regal.
The true masters of the wood.
Upon their thrones they sit,
And claim them they certainly should.