The winter's hunt

The snow picks up speed,
Whipping chilling fingers quickly,
That rake the land's green pelt and any in the way.

So many travel as one,
And the wind shouts loudly,
Calling forth the weak and the meek.

To the ice,
They wander in confusion,
Met by teeth of darling silver and white.

So many remain,
Yet even then the storm strikes,
And thin down the numbers thrust ice.

With one little pup,
Whose fate was life to the snow,
As large round eyes close one last time.

As the saying goes,
Only the strong survive,
Yet in a land of ice so few remain.

Winter's chill dances on bones,
And even the strong are drained,
As their final night draws to a close.

The snow picks up,
And without a voice to know,
The winter lets out a final howl to the moon.