Fox

I slip into the in-between,
the alleyways and underneaths.
The world is full of turning wheels
and blazing screens,
full of people talking
to themselves.
You don’t see me.

Long before houses
when the street was not a street
but a field
and before that
a forest,
I lived here.
Still I roam free,
dine with the moon.

See me curled in snow
with my companions.
I’m not afraid
to look you in the eye.
I know how to walk
among humans,
how to miss the rush,
take the quiet streets.

I have never been tamed.
Even now, I am of The Wild.

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One thought on “Fox

  1. Pingback: The street is not a street | Follow the brush

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