The rain drums like tapping finger nails on my window.

I shiver and I shake.

The sun forces his way through reluctant clouds.

My hands are covered in scars and burns.

Birds sing a melody of soft awakening.

It sounds much too close, so I poke my head out of the doorway. There is nothing.

Flowers begin to bloom while others begin to wilt.

I feel as though I am both wilted and am in the process of becoming.

I shed this skin of shields, and wear my heart on my sleeve.

It is a vulnerable state, for there are predators amongst the pack.

What I fear the most is that I am one of those predators.

The wolf gives a mourning howl, soft and low. Filled with a lonesome, melodramatic sorrow.

The rain threatens to pick up again.

I escape it's hold, for rain is necessary, though I dislike it.

My name has been sullied, blackened. And why not?

The prey only lies.

The wolves are painted as predators because they tell the truth.

So I will leave my sun drenched corner and go headfirst towards the rain.

I will dance with wolves.