Hoped to Fly


The fox,
red as autumn,
the one that burrows

the grim stump

the tool shed
where the ivy
grows thick,

dark green,
as green as black –
yes, that fox,

the fox that snatches
egg shells
from the garbage cans

lining the street,
silent sentinels,
dented and stained.

This morning,
it was found.
Its body lay

under the rail fence,
near the willow

that leans over
the swing set
where the children

once played,
its legs extended,
reaching forward and back

as if in that last
it hoped to fly.


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