we run from tundra to tundra out of site

hearing the shuffel of snow or dirt

under the moon lit night

in the day were but a mirr shadow of the trees

silent unuff to here the buzz of the bees

we are dangerous but in danger are self

as winter is upon us, hunters come as we hurry

in a scurry

we have no choice but to run

for this is life and no game of fun