SYMPATHY FOR WOLVES,
by John Gregory Betancourt
I could hear wolves scratching like dogs at my door again. It was a full moon, or close to it, and I still felt a stirring deep in my soul, a longing to join them for the hunt, just as they longed to join me. I fought it, as I always did, and those wolfish instincts subsided for a time.
As I pulled back the shade and peered out, I marveled at the crystalline perfection of a crisp Montana night. It was January, and a coating of frost had silvered the land, etching a light pattern of crystals around the window panes.
I couldn't help myself. I opened the window and leaned out, sniffing the air, letting my senses heighten and expand well beyond the human norm.
Six gray wolves stood on the ridge behind my house, noses up, smelling the air
