So as time goes by one wonders from time to time if one has lost the touch. Has your moment passed or as the bard has it:
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed, whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourish’d by.
Akela had this problem. On the council rock he thought of the time when he would miss his buck and the young wolves would turn against him and bite his legs off.
I sometimes see myself like the old grey wolf who soon will not pin his buck.
Not yet though.
So eat dirt young wolves.
I await the dhole.