From the far-off woods, seven marauders in grey came sweeping in, ghostly travelllers to a place only they did know. Graceful strides made at an everlasting pace, the pack raced across the empty plain, as if racing the wind itself or the onset of some unseen time pressing on their heels.
As they passed, one of the wolves broke from the other and headed our way. But as he neared, he slowed to a respectful approach one trotting step after another. Until our eyes met. Mine were dancing with flights of fear, the wolf's eyes, with the flames of the ancient fire, a wild passion that lived as pure freedom. But the wolf's wild eyes turned sky blue, Blue-Eyes Blue. It was Squire in all his natural wonder, running once more with the wild wind. It was but an everlasting moment that our eyes exchanged our souls, as I felt the blue-eyed wolf say to me, "Run with me, Young Traveller, run with me all your days."
With that he was off, to become once more the pack, to become once more the wild wind and the ancient howl that lingers in our distant memory and in our distant, just beyond this world of the safe and ordinary life.
And it has been true, I can still hear the blue-eyed wolf howl in the melancholy nights, when the spirit within me has grown weak and weary.
I can sometimes hear the pack beckon to me, to run wild once among the fears, to feel the pulse of heated hearts working together as one, to feel that my soul is somehow tied to others, one soul made of many.
I can sometimes feel the blue-eyed wild rise up within my spirit, from the hidden, ancient places of my soul, and once more, I yearn to race across the moonlit field and chase the shadows until they are far, so far away.
My grandfather has blue eyes as do I. They are kind eyes, loving eyes, but every now and then, they blaze with fire.