Two wolves meet at a bend in the river.
These two, though, do not posture, bare teeth, or growl.
Neither moves, but they stare.
The younger of the two, the red wolf, glances overheard as the sun reaches it’s apex in the sky.
The older wolf quints. This one is wise. Discerning. Unafraid.
The red wolf feels, in that moment, a kinship. An understanding. Not respect, per se, but it’s pale cousin: curiosity.
Here are tricks to be learned. Stratagems imparted.
A grin, then; course red hair rippling along a fleshy maw accustomed to violence.
Never shy, the old wolf smiles back.
Common interest. Spilt blood. Sustenance.