To a Hyena
Many are afraid of you, and rightly,
but demonize you just a bit too much.
I know that you sleep together nightly—
a burrow covers up a pile of touch.
Most don’t know even that—that burrows deep
are yours from whelps up until you are grown;
and, grown, you stalk the land while the whelps sleep
so that no dangers are, to their dreams, known.
A scary face is less so when known well,
and yours now looks quite cuddly to me.
But I am danger—even you can tell
to never trust a human that you see.
Who calls you wicked but the one who shares
your very own priorities and cares?