Scattered prints in the snow, a marathon in a white world. Howling and panting the wolves run, weaving through sleeping trees and dead silence. Their fur coats, the brightest shades of freedom; burghandy, butterscotch, brandy streaking in the light. Each wolf has a different color of coat, a different shade of eye, a different tone of voice but still they run together at the same speed darting around the same obstacles. They are one moving entity, a dark river flowing through the forest. This is art. These creatures pounding the earth with their damp paws, these beasts that sing to the moon and dance to the rain, they are more beautiful than any piece by Monet or Van Gogh.