Seeing Fox - Poem by Taylor Graham
Among wood and dry stone, branches
like stiff snakes’ tongues, a web
of spider, forest walls in waves,
the focus is one live eye. Fox.
An instant, gone. Small birds
come back, complaining to the safe
shadows, the unstenched water.
No more joy of ruddy fur under a fall
of sun, no sizzle-samba
of whiskers, changing woodland
quiet into a dangerous listening.
In spite of rumor, Fox is gone
to the lethal edge of asphalt,
hugging berms and cover like an eye
behind the lashes of wild trees.
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