Danny Metcalfe

The wolf at the door.

There was a wolf at the door. His eyes were skillful, with the power to ease and yet abiding to the laws of evil. His ears married to the sound of judgment, marked by the early word that said nothing in particular. His teeth argued among themselves, never in agreement and seldom saw the light of honesty. Announcing their arrival with a howl. The howl was of a certain frequency that leaves you wanting. Then a feeble growl, faint to the touch and I did not dare touch it. The heat of his breath at my feet, isolating my toes from one another. It slowly rises up to the tip of my mouth, tasting the bending of the summit. There are no birds here.