I sprinted through the forest, the landscape whipped by in a blur as I slowly closed the gap between me and my prey. The wind ruffled my fur and brought the smell of the young rabbit to my nose. In one last push, I jumped onto the rabbit and quickly killed it, so it wouldn't suffer. I panted and my heart raced from the adrenaline pumping through me. I sat to catch my breath and stared up at the colored trees. They swayed gracefully in the wind, leaves fell around me, decorating the ground like a canvas and left the trees cold brown limbs to reach up tirelessly at the sky. I watched as bird flitted from tree to tree and squirrels scampering up and down branches in search of nuts to store for the winter. As I regained my breath, I got up, grabbed my prey in my mouth and began walking through the forest. The forest is my home, it is a living thing that is breathtakingly beautiful and deadly at the same time. And to survive, to live in that beauty, I am willing to risk the danger of dying. This is what it means to be alive. This is what is means to be a wolf.