Spending a considerable amount of time, circling the remnants of the kill as the wolves had done, attempting to read their story in the snow and studying spots of carnage, torn fur and hide, fragments of caribou flesh and vast amounts of solid frozen blood. At the end of their dance lay the kill in its simplicity. The answer was nothing at all. I was the outsider. This is the life of the wolf.
Wolves understand death perfectly.
That is the bright, cold wisdom that we see in their eyes. The thing that makes us afraid. Death is their art, their beauty, while it is our darkness and terror. As a boy my grandfather told me on several occasions that if we had ever understood what the wolf knows, we've forgotten. Maybe we're drawn to the wolf because they remember.