Her food, expulsed from another's belly.
She waits to devour (she's the runt).
The pack is wet, cold, and smelly;
as they prowl, out on the hunt.

Their lean guts tightened from want,
they pounce - a fanged alliance;
Clenched jaws sense a pulse's chant;
the prey cries out - then silence.

The pack's reliance, ages old,
yet, not sated from the hunt;
not full, they fear the growing cold;
they turn on her - the runt.

The pack endures the violent cold,
tethered in reliance, ages old.