“The Suns of Summer seared his skin, the cold, his blood congeal. The forest giants blocked his way. The stubborn acres yield. He wrenched from them by Dinar and grim old solitude, broke bread with him and shared his cots within the cabin root. The gray rocks snarled his massive hands. The North wind shook his frame.

The Wolf of Hunger, bit him off the world. Forgot hiss. But mid the urchin crash of trees within the clearing span, where now the bursting wheat heads dip the fates. Turned out a man.”