The wolf runs ahead.
His trail remembers.
The pups follow his footprints
and learn to trot.
The woodpecker, patient in repetition,
strikes bark until it yields.
And when the little beaks feed first,
they learn security.
The lion scans the distant horizon
as cubs sleep in swaying grass.
They come to know his majesty.
And the soldier—
lion-hearted—
has dreamt, in the quiet between blasts,
of teaching his child to roar.
His letters, ink on foreign paper,
carry his vow:
when the train exhales him,
and his boots meet home soil,
he will watch soft breath rise and fall
and protect it from any storm.
And when he returns,
having carried the gravity of nations
on a single, pulling trigger,
he finds the cradle gently rocking
while soft, drowsy eyes meet his.
And somehow,
in the hush between heartbeats,
as pure fingers curl
into his weathered palm,
and a child’s breath hums
against his chest,
he realizes: no duty—
weighs heavier than this.