There are Nights when the Wolves are Silent, and Only the Moon Howls.

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I tell you what I've noticed! How nature’s got this twisted sense of drama? Wolves those majestic, furry anarchists usually do the howling. It’s their thing. It’s primal. It’s poetic. It’s the sound of ‘I’m here, I’m hungry, and I might eat your poodle.’ But then there are nights when they shut the hell up. Not a peep. Not a growl. Not even a passive-aggressive sniff. And that’s when the moon decides to lose its damn mind.
 
The moon! That smug, glowing golf ball in the sky. Always hanging around like it’s got nothing better to do. Just floating there, judging us silently. But on those nights those eerie, existential nights it howls. Not with sound, but with presence. With pressure. With that pale, lunatic stare that says, “You people are screwing it all up.”

And we are. Oh, we are! We’ve got billionaires trying to colonise Mars while half the planet can’t afford dental floss. We’ve got influencers selling detox teas that make you poop like a frightened goose. We’ve got politicians who lie so often, they’ve started outsourcing their apologies to interns. And through it all, the wolves stay quiet. Because even they know: this circus isn’t worth the howl.

Maybe the wolves are tired. Maybe they’re uniting. Maybe they’re binge watching reruns of Planet Earth and wondering when the humans got replaced by algorithms in yoga pants. Or maybe, just maybe, they’re listening. Listening to the moon scream in frequencies we can’t hear. Cosmic Morse code for “You’re all nuts.”

And the moon? It’s not just howling. It’s laughing. Laughing at our little wars, our little gods, our little gadgets that track our steps while we sit on the couch eating crisps. It’s laughing because it’s been here longer than our species, our stories, our stupid little slogans like “Live, Laugh, Love.” The moon doesn’t live, laugh, or love. It looms.

So next time the wolves go quiet, don’t feel safe. That silence isn’t peace it’s punctuation. It’s the universe pausing to say, “You’ve officially weirded out the wildlife.” And when the moon howls, it’s not poetry. It’s a warning. A glowing middle finger from the cosmos saying, “Sort your shit out!”




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