Her village, nothing more than scorched wood on a map. A cursed land. Mother says she owes her life to the wolves. At eighteen, sturdy, and ripe, she chops lumber, and lifts her axe with limber ease. The wind scratching her cheeks, so sublime, she fails to heed eventide until she hears them. Demons. Prowling beyond the brushwood, growling with hunger. A mixture of fear and purpose to mow them down until a familiar howl. The moon is whole, and his eyes, glow umber.
A continuation, but a separate poem, from the memory prompt. Trying to stick with nature/wood/mineral themes.