sam🫧
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wvlfs.bsky.social
sam🫧
@wvlfs.bsky.social
570 followers 660 following 130 posts
🌈🫧🌿i draw things i like🐺
they/it/xe/pup 21y white ∞ ⚢ ⨺⃝ 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️
PNW🏞📍
PLEASE TALK TO ME ABOUT TOH🦉
artist on WCAnimated🐈 | jackalope cabin🧡🌿
wolfauxll.carrd.co | art-only feed in tabs or #art !
🚫ANTI-AI / NFT | SFW but 16+
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wvlfs.bsky.social
thank you!
August 4, 2025 at 3:58 PM
wvlfs.bsky.social
OHHHH i so gotta draw AJ as a werewolf now.. thank you!!
July 24, 2025 at 11:20 PM
wvlfs.bsky.social
@carrionthropic.bsky.social i think you would like this^_^
July 16, 2025 at 10:47 PM
Reposted by sam🫧
shimi.bsky.social
“What the Creek Said”
A watercolor illustration titled “What the Creek Said” by Shimi & Critter. On the left, a small brown wren perches among green leaves. A pale blue creek winds down the center of the image, flanked by lush greenery. On the lower right, a golden-brown wolf pup with white markings bends to drink from the stream, eyes closed peacefully. The background is soft earth tones, blending into warm golds and greens. Overlaying the artwork is a poem in typewriter-style font. The poem is about a creature walking on four feet, communing with the forest, and feeling known and held by the land and sky. It evokes themes of Therian identity, creaturely grace, and spiritual belonging. The final lines express a longing not for death but for transformation—“to become, in this exalted creaturely state… to be held at last.” What the Creek Said Today I walked on four feet, although two were enough. The forest did not mind. The creek was speaking —in its clear tongue, …and I bent down, cupped it in paw-hands, drank what it offered— not to survive, but remember. I thought I heard my name, not as the world calls me— not by word nor brazen human sound— but in the gentle shape of air, before shame, before names, in that hush between a leaf …and its falling. I howled, just once and low, not for sorrow, but to join the chorus already going on without me. A wren answered. The cedar leaned closer. And I, made of fur and salt …and breath, I was fed, seen, and known. Somewhere—still far— a lamb watches the gate. But here, right here, the Shepherd’s hand is moss …and lichen and sky. I lay down beside the stone. I do not wish to die. Not now, no… not just yet —But simply to wait. Not to rise, nor to witness, but to become, in this exalted creaturely state. To be held …at last.
July 13, 2025 at 8:16 PM