The Fox

I am the aging fox
Full of song not sung
You are the willful hound
Blood bound and forever young

It is you who carved the paths through this deep dark wood
And instructed the trees to whisper their beliefs instead of grow their limbs into legs
and disperse from the ground in which they were stunned

It is the wise owl who’s head is bound to it’s back
Stunned by the horrors it watched from above
and now can not ever turn itself away from

It is we that were warned of the witches
With their broomsticks and crippling wands
But it is only the hunter who wanders here
And it is he who carries a gun

I was left in this clearing
By those entrusted to keep me safe
Unsure of what ever I had done
Unsure of when if ever they would come

And as I waited for my friend here
Certain he’d not leave me long
They removed my collar from my home
And paired it with that of skunk

Then they let you loose of your leash
Like that of a game they’d taught you once
Entered us in a race that in pairs could never be won

And by the time I had determined this
As late as dusk and as dark as before dawn
Around a corner,
Your foaming mouth,
Your wagging tail,
Your splitting tongue

And the trees now all turn up their leaves,
As the wind curls up around and under their trunks
Needn’t they utter a single sound
Before I understand now
To run

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