He walks along an old deer-trail. Not hunting; just enjoying to easy walking. At night his bones ache, and creak and grumble protest; so he feels no guilt about taking the trail.
Once he would have found such action laughable. But that was when he was young, when he still had his man-shape and youth and plenty of food.
His tail swung back and forth, almost wagging at the memories of such days. He had been a hunter then, not the raggedy one-shaped scavenger he was now. There had been others with him in those days.
But those days were long gone. The woods he had called home, with the great trees had been felled. Much of the game had been hunted. Farms and cities had taken over the wilderness, and his kind were now called vermin: hunted with jagged trap, poison, and whatever cruelties the newcomers could think up.
The old wolf continued on; leaving the game-trail for tougher going. There were still places where one could find peace, and game was plentiful. He was sure of it. He just had to keep moving. The signs were good so far. The deer-trail, the trees of greater and greater size. He was headed in the right direction.
Above, the moon was a sliver of a smile. The old wolf took that as a good sign.