Quiet Colors of the Call

We do not march with banners,
no trumpets split the dawn;
our anthem is a radio hiss,
a grid ref softly drawn.

We shoulder maps and questions,
breathe cedar, sage, and rain;
the mountains keep their secrets—
we listen for a name.

Hands rough with midnight searching
trace hope along a ridge;
headlamps paint brief constellations
across a shadowed bridge.

We learn the language of boot prints,
the tremor of a bark;
our compass is compassion
that glows inside the dark.

No laurels crown the finish,
no medals seal our worth;
the prize is quiet footfalls
returning home to earth.

So let the boardroom beckon—
titles fade like fog at dawn;
service is the humble spark
that keeps the beacon on.

Together we are signal fire,
steady in the night:
many hearts, one purpose—
to guide the lost to light.

 

*The poem is dedicated to those who take up the call to save those they've never met. 

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