There’s a certain type of wolf out there who’s howl comes from the heart. It can be felt from miles and miles, it’s love echoing louder with every front. It’s the type of wolf so deadly, its silence kills. ‘X’ marks the spot(s) and the ‘O’ to every ‘X’ means been there, done that. Silence was every thought. It made you weaker and stronger, but from it there is a growth in resilience and a new form of endurance. A vulnerable voice so impactful it chills. The howl of this wolf’s got a strain to its DNA, and its called grit.
When you’re a pack of your own, you learn to watch your own clock, every constant is 6, and the rotations don’t stop. The call of the wild leads you North bound and the game you risk is chance. A chance to miss out on life if you don’t risk the risk. This wolf in particular is a hunter so hunted, and spears of the ignorant is what traps it. Its travel from past to present brings life in all directions. The knowledge from generations withstand its questioned existence.
The air is different. Each breath you take feels like another step into life. The crunch of the snow is steeper and the tundra winds blow harsher than frigid. Sometimes you have to realize that in order to make a pack, one needs to be built first. The first few steps of wildlife plains have you grow and the tundra winds shape you so bold.
The roads are long and narrow, but the trek on foot is vast and endless. The climb of pace is boundless, and the echo’s of the howl’s are indefinite. Tracks left behind from the imprints of the paws are now gateways to memories and perseverance. So when the wolves come out to howl, howl for the gods, creators, and spirits. They send forth you, your pack and true limitations.
About the Creator
Jade Marie Dawn
A philanthropist, sending positive vibes through her experiences, thoughts, & ways of knowing 👑
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Mud Pies
As a child, I used to be fascinated with dirt, worms, and especially catching grasshoppers and bringing them home as pets. All of the things a 7-year-old should be into when they’re in the Second Grade. When my brother Jarold and I were little, we used to go into our backyard and water up the soil so we could make these endless amounts of mud pies. I loved the way it felt in my hand, being moulded and sculpted into what seemed to be my Mother’s worst nightmare. In the moment that my little hand could control something, I didn’t realize how beautiful this piece of mud really was. That, at that moment, this little piece of earth, meant to my 7-year-old mind, that I could control the outcome of this little marvellous piece of wet dirt.
By Jade Marie Dawn6 years ago in Futurism
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