We are not separate. We are braided into the same weather. We are the howl and the silence that follows it, the open wound and the mercy that keeps it from closing too fast. We are the frozen and the living, the ones who pull and the ones who hold.
We are hunger passed hand to mouth, breath shared in the cold, movement learned by watching another body lean forward and choose to go on.
We are teeth and trust, strain and belonging. The instinct to break away and the deeper instinct to stay.
Nothing here survives alone. Not the dog.
Not the pack.
Not the human standing just outside the circle, learning where they fit.
We are the echoes of the pack.
Not a sound, but a memory that lives in the body. A reminder that survival is never singular, it moves between us.