Wild Grace Lives Here
I live somewhere between city sidewalks and deep woods.
Close enough to hear traffic.
Close enough to hear coyotes howl at dusk.
There’s a small patch of land behind our home—
not wilderness exactly,
but not tamed either.
It’s filled with deer, owls, raccoons, and once, a black bear.
I see deer more often than I see neighbors.
They slip through the yard like whispers.
Sometimes bold, sometimes cautious.
They move with intention, instinct, grace.
And sometimes I stop long enough to notice them.
Slowing down, I begin to pray.
Not always with words.
Sometimes with stillness.
Sometimes with awe.
In those moments, I feel what I call wild grace—
God’s presence through the living, breathing world
just outside my window.
This grace isn’t tidy.
It startles.
It howls.
It doesn’t always make sense.
But it’s real.
And it fills my poems—especially this one:
Shadowed Movement
Shadowed movement
catches my peripheral,
brown against green.
I turn to see
deer, normally bold,
ducking into trees.
I still,
checking for predators.
The bushes rustle,
stop.
I am chilled
when the howls of the hunt
ring my yard as the sun
dips and the sky darkens.
It’s not so quiet living
outside the city limits,
but I do appreciate the chuckling
of the owl when the coyotes leave.
This is what I try to capture in To Speak—
not just quiet grace,
but wild grace.
The kind that shows up when we pause.
The kind that waits in the rustling leaves.
Call to Action
If you've felt that grace—the kind that humbles you in motion or stillness—To Speak may speak to you, too.
👉 Visit the Kickstarter here to read more poems and help bring the collection to life.
And if you're a writer, reader, or wanderer:
May you find wild grace in unexpected places this week.
—Tyrean
