Maplehund

          The warm sun helps soothe the ache in your bones, but you are so very tired.

          Rest easy, the breeze murmurs, the promise of sleep hanging heavy in the wind. Close your eyes. You've done enough.

           Not yet, not yet, you whisper back. My work is not yet done. All around you the pack thrives. Puppies tumble and roll together underneath the warm sun, and you hear the news of a successful hunt in the distance. You watched this family grow, helped it grow. New generations of feet reared by your guidance are now travelling the trails you blazed. Surely there is more yet to do.

           Silly creature, the voice says again, its amused sound the thin whistle of leaves in the wind. Your work will  never be done. The song of life is an unending, mysterious thing. Though your voice may fade from the chorus, your part in it will be remembered. 

           It is a comforting thought. 

            The sun shines through the last remaining leaves of autumn, dappling the ground in various shades of ochre. There is a tempting patch of grass just past the trees over there; the ground would be warm and soft, you know. 

            You feel a little bit silly for asking, but you cannot help it. Will they be alright?

           You cannot know the future, the wind chides gently. All you can do is move forward knowing you did everything you could. 

             Another childish question. Will I be alright?

             You will be remembered. They will not forget.

             I am tired, you admit. The blissful quiet of rest is a siren's call to your weary heart. But I will enjoy the sunlight for a little longer, I think. It is a beautiful day.

             Take your time, my friend. The brush of the wind through your fur is soft. The light is fading, little singer, and the coming night will be filled with stars.