Read: The Werewolf Epic

The Addition:

Yet still a moment in the grass he stays.
The night sounds off her quiet mysteries,
a ballad of nocturnal noise, music
for dreamers unawake. The restful sounds
the woodsman harkens to, and listless sits.
The moonlight paints in pale shadows all that
surrounds the cursed hut. The greens glow blue
under illumination soft, the grass,
its bowing stalks, as if some coursing stream.
Thus mesmerized, the hunter feels the weight
of sleep assault his weary mind, his back,
grown sore, dully aching, wishes to rest,
to stretch itself, to lie some time supine,
to lay asleep within this field. But lo,
one nighttime bird, in sudden fevered pitch,
shatters the woven spell, and like some drunk,
the man stumbles forward into the glen.
Shaking himself, he thus, in stalking tread,
comes to the cabin’s creaking, open door.