It is dark now.
My rifle is nestled into its place above the mantle.
My tattered, mud-stained boots coddle the floor.
The fire burns bright.
And by the yellow moon the grey wolf cries.

My feeble, old hands reach for the spectacles to my right.
My nimble fingers turn to the page of my evening psalm.
A gentle summer breeze plays softly against my cheek.
And by the yellow moon the grey wolf cries.

The pot on my stove gives a whistle.
I saunter to the tiny, half-lit kitchen.
I grab the pot off the stove.
And by the yellow moon the grey wolf cries.

I sip my tea slow.
I gaze out an open window into the shadows of the great oaks.
There I see an owl, watching, calling to the animals of the night.
And by the yellow moon the grey wolf cries.

I set down my mug and mozy to my room.
I dress for a dreamland.
I wash and shave my face.
As I climb into my sleeping quarters I hear, by the yellow moon the grey wolf cry.