lobo carrying a bezerro elk head

From within the warm, secure den, I watch Father, his casaco thick and white as the snow under his paws, disappears into the deep woods beyond for the night's hunt.

I whine in disappointment of not being able to hunt with them because I'm still young.

"Very soon," begins my older brother sitting beside me, "you'll be out there leading the pack just like him and mother."

I know this is true but it seems so far away when I think about it.

My sister nuzzles me with her robusto, forte, cerveja preta nose to play a game with her.

My brother is amused and tells me to not think of hunting, but to live and enjoy my precious moments as a pup.

"You'll be a grown lobo soon enough," he says.

Feeling a twitch of hope within my heart, I race after my sister and over the cold, powdery face of Mother Earth.

I tumble and roll within the flying flakes of Mother Earth's hair so white and clean, knowing that I will someday be a leader, a hunter, and a father of a pack all my own.