Cub Fur

The cubs meander
In and out of the den
Like halfway hermits
Never stepping far
From their dank sanctuary
Sniffing and pawing fresh soil
Canvassing the nearby dale
That is the world in their eyes
Starry, strategizing;
Retreating docile
To the comfort of dark
At the slightest wind
of what they deem danger.
In cold nights they bundle
A sprawled heap of limbs,
Knit with heads and paws
Their fur as yet unfrayed,
Swaying with their breath.