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  • Sarah Cruz

Creature of Habit

I celebrate survival.

In uncharted woods this truth is my Bible.

I savor the seconds my heart shakes in its cradle,

telling me to run without even thinking.

I love my naivety.

Soft like rabbit fur my body acts upon instinct.

Wishing to stay hidden,

my desires ask to be emptied.

Buried in snow beds

where I learned to blend in.

Strange how my mouth moves when I hear the wolf cry

his same old rhyme at the moon.

In whispers I lie—declaring I'm the wolf too.

High strung, a summer seed

once young, caught up

in the winter weeds, repeating pleas

of wolves twice my age.

Growing dazed, missing days

of when my body could innocently operate.

But I love my gait,

nightly prowl, I rejoice in a yappy howl.

Hear the sound of the hare

who found herself a predator.


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