01/26/2026
When the White One Lowers Its Head
Snow falls without asking.
It teaches the ground how to listen.
A woman kneels where breath turns visible,
where the cold remembers every footstep.
The white one stands before her,
heavy with winters and silence.
Its eye holds no threat, no promise—
only the patience of staying alive.
Between them, the earth does not speak loudly.
It speaks in weight.
In the way a hand rests on fur,
in the way a forehead bows without surrender.
The moon rises behind them,
not to watch, but to keep time.
It has seen this before—
the living meeting the living with care.
She does not pray with words.
Her prayer is posture.
Her prayer is choosing gentleness
when strength would be easier.
The ancestors are not above them.
They are inside the snow,
inside the animal’s slow breath,
inside the woman’s still spine.
They say: endure, but do not harden.
Protect, but do not dominate.
Carry what is given,
and lay it down when the earth asks.
The white one leans closer.
The woman does not move away.
This is how lineage survives—
not by force, but by trust renewed.