Silent keeper of thresholds, you rise without sound, feathers stitched from dusk, eyes holding the long dark. You do not announce yourself. You arrive. Between heartbeat and breath, between what is seen and what is known. You are not comfort. You are clarity. The one who watches when others turn away, who sees what moves in the margins of fear. Your gaze does not flinch. It settles on decay, on the small, quick lives that survive by hiding. You teach us that truth is not loud

White-shadowed keeper of listening, you move where snow remembers every footfall, body light as breath. You are neither weak nor fleeing, but alert, the one who survives by noticing first. Your stillness is not surrender, but attunement, reminding us that danger often passes those who do not announce themselves. Hare, you are not afraid of winter. You change to meet it, you hold close to the earth, you move only when needed, and still you endure, still you remain. In your qui