We are a tribe often invisible—

We are quiet and soft in our essence.
We often sit on the borderland,
We are wolves of hidden verities.

We are called “too sensitive,”
Sometimes shy.
Others speak up with brute strength
And attract the herds.

But we know our true worth,
The value held in caves.
We wait for others to come to us,
Attracted to our quiet power.

Our voices are soft,
Yet hold strength.
The strength of those
Who have taken it all in.

The strength of silvering ancients,
Who gather words
From inside their pelts,
And form quiet phrases of truth.

We know the bold breezes
Of our thoughts,
Leading us onward,
On multicolored paths of excitement.

We explore where we are curious,
We pause and know the vigor
Of our imaginings,
Dancing inside with wildness.

The scents and trails
We explore sustain us.
When others need others,
We can be strong in our skin.

With keen whiskers, we know
What others feel.
We can sense joy, anger, agitation
Of someone dwelling near.

We are compassionate in our thoughts
Of people around us.
We sense the universal suffering—
So much we want to bury our heads,
But instead raise up.

We can sit
Serenely for a friend,
And hold a space of comfort.
We can be a den of peace.

Although seen as soft to the outside,
We are strong.
We have skills that defy logic,
That are unique to our tribe.

Our intuition leads us to roots,
That are shrouded for others.
Seeing the hidden circles and rhythms,
We are in knowing.

We wear our strength on the inside,
And take in the world.
We add our peaceful stillness to its ecology,
So the earth may be strong.

We may not speak loudly,
And our answers may be lost in the din,
But when we find our territory,
We belong to the magic.
We are wolves of hidden verities.

.

Author: Bethany Bilbrey

Editor: Yoli Ramazzina

Photo: Flickr/Zane Mulligan