Once an oasis, now a stagnant pond in a cesspool.
Will the moon shine here again and make it a cool lake, or will she only peep from the clouds and show the weeds in harsh white light? I wondered if a new pond might not be better, but thought there was magic in this pool once, and might be again.
He was home in darkness, once. Only a multitude of stars, tiny points of light in a curtain of blackness serving no purpose other than to give him enough light to see the world he ran in. But he grew thirsty, and needed to drink. Once, the clouds parted and he saw the moon. He paused in his wandering, wondering at this new thing he hadn't seen before. He howled and knew it heard, and he drank from the waters she showed him. Many saw the white light of the moon as cold, and hard... but he understood the warmth of the moon, its company on dark nights, and how it dispelled shadows.
The moon knew he was drinking and wanted to see who it was in her light - but he was a black wolf, and even in her light hard to see. Instinct told him to hunt from the shadows. Instinct learned while he was a cub, and he was no longer young. Hard instinct, and sharp, forged in the fires of experience. And a wolf is nothing if not wary - and proud.
He was looking for the moon, too. But he'd put his nose to the ground, followed the trail, and one day he realised his light had moved. Looked up and saw that the clouds had drawn over her and he had not seen it in his hunt, forgotten her in his concentration. He thought he saw a deer in the distance. Deer are fast, and light. Faster than he, he knew. He wondered if she knew that he had not seen the deer until he saw her light on it. He saw his blackness, and how it had hidden him from her. He knew he could never be a white wolf... but he wondered if black could become grey, and perhaps, one day, silver. Wondered if the moon might not show herself to him as a white
wolf, and run with him.
He waits now, to see if the clouds will part again, and her light shine to light his trail once more.