a wolf howls
its undulating cry
The market undulates, rising and falling in sinuous waves, threading a path gradually upward like a monk ascending a winding path to the mountaintop, covered in mist, beckoning the monk onward—toward the heavenly gate. The market undulates, falling gradually like a river weaving down the mountain, rushing then still—always flowing. Hear the market’s undulating cry, imitating the wolf, a monk in a robe of fur.
The market drifts through the canyon, a gentle breeze turning into a howling wind as it picks up speed, calling to the wolf—its wild brother. The market hunts us, turning us into prey as it nibbles at our mistakes, waiting to tear us apart with its razor-sharp teeth. The market stalks us, smelling our fear, waiting until we’re vulnerable . . . then pouncing.
We are creatures, born of the earth and sky, brothers and sisters to the wolf. The howl in our hearts begs for release. We need to become hunters—not the hunted. Stalking the market like a wolf, waiting patiently for an opening, we grab our profit with our claws. As warriors of the wild, we don our fur cloaks, shrouding ourselves with deep instinctual energy, meeting the market . . . with a predator’s stare.
Photo Credit: Stock Photo by Nattapon Wongwean