To Me, When Young

Like a lamb living in a pack of wolves,

you wonder why they hurt you when they love you.

You note that your muzzle is not so sleek and sharp.

You tremble at their snapping maws,

hide from their howling yawps.

But the den is safer than the woods outside.

So you believe.

You might think, one day, to venture from the mouth of the den,

through trees, into fields. 

You might push into folds of wool and 

think, "Here is home, here is my flock."

But the sheep will run from your hot breath, your panting heart.

Your teeth are too bright.

Your fingers are the wrong shape.

Oh little fool.

Oh scared child.

You are not sheep.

You are not wolf.

You do not belong in den or pack or flock or field.

Yours is the darkness of the forest, the hum of the craggy mountains.

You are the lonely wandering bear, 

the bobcat on the ridge.

You must walk the narrow trail and drink from cold streams.

Not for you the frenzied tussle of fur and yip,

Nor the hollow-eyed mastication of grass.

For you, the wind against bark, the crisp of dried moss.

Solitude is your pack and pride.

There is strength in numbers but there is power in standing alone.

If you try to run with wolves you will fall.

Your magic is your singular signal, your unique call.

Be the oak, the moose, the peak of the mountain.

There is no loneliness here.

There is no fear, no heartbreak.

With the expanse all around you

and the sky opened wide, 

you will be the freest creature that ever lived.