I tread the same paths
hoof-falls echoing on the smooth rock
worn formless and without ornament
by the countless before me.
I follow the others that broke from the flock
untended by the shepherds, forgotten.
Yet the wolves are simply cried for;
apparitions in the trees.
They do not yearn for blood
and they have no mouths for teeth.
They wail and howl incessantly
mournful calls to the moon and the sea.
In their song, in their pain
we catch glimpses of the truth.
For the wolves are not dangerous
not killing, exploiting, and castigating.
The wolves do not disown their own young
and abuse the young of others.
They do not hide behind a paper-thin guise
and defend their actions with flawed rhetoric.
They do not follow an outdated
centuries old storybook
twisting its words
without grasping the meaning.
They do not carry staffs
with which they punish and warn.
Though demonized by the pastoral shepherds
they are not the wolves in sheep’s clothing.
Neither is what it seems.