Category Archives: Fang & Claw

What Remains


What Remains

It is easy to count absences,
to weigh hollow spaces
left by what was,
to listen for echoes of a voice
that no longer answers.

But loss is a thief
who will take more
as it lingers—
it grows fond of company.

So look
not back, but around.
The light shifts as it always has,
long shadows stretching toward
some unseen horizon.

The air carries scents
that do not belong to the past,
and the earth, forgiving as ever,
still holds you.

What you have now
is not less.
It is different.
It is the pulse in your hand,
the quiet of the morning,
the small, stubborn blooms
that push through cracks in stone.

This moment—
it is yours,
as much as anything ever was.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Good Night, Mayor


Dogfather

He filled the room just by being in it,
a man too big for small moments,
too alive for anything half-measured.
When he laughed, it was the whole world laughing.
When he loved, it was with the force of a storm
that left everything standing—
only cleaner, only brighter.

He didn’t just live.
He lived. Every. Second.
Not cautious, never cautious,
but sure, as if the ground itself
rose to meet his feet.

They called him the Dogfather,
and it fit.
A presence you leaned on,
trusted —
because how could one person
carry so much life?


When he sat beside you,
you felt something solid in a world
too full of shifting sand.
And when he gave his love,
you knew it would outlast him.

In the end, it did.
He died the way he lived—
loving, loved,
surrounded by the ones
he’d taught to carry the light.

Even in sleep,
he burned like a fire.
And when the flames finally dimmed,
they left a warmth behind
that does not fade.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Morning’s Caw



Ravensong

Each morning, they gather,
a council of shadow wings
against the pale rise of dawn.

They do not sing—
they declare,
sharp and guttural,
words I cannot know
but feel in my chest,
where night dreams
still linger.

Black eyes glint like secrets,
like the edges of things
forgotten
or yet to come.

They hop and nod,
conferring with dry earth,
lifting their shoulders
as if shrugging off the weight of the sky.

I wonder if they wait for me,
if I am part of their routine—
a figure they watch with quiet amusement,
their dark humor
woven into warm, dusty air.

Do they bring omens?
Or only themselves,
the steady rhythm of wings
reminding me
that the day is already in motion,
and I,
like them,
am bound to it.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​