I am one hiding in the phlox
Bordering a black mailbox.
Long gone are the fertile fields and wood
My parents hunted. This is no good.
I’m forced to hunt a vast suburbs.
Instead of leaping streams, it’s curbs—
Yes me, the subject of proverbs.
But where else can I possibly go?
I cannot fly off like a crow.
Those humans work with machine speed
Bulldozing land to gorge their greed.
They never ask us what we need.
I hear a mousy squeak up there
Under the hosta. Do I dare?
I see a chipmunk scratching seed.
I smell a road-killed skunk’s last deed.
There are so many of us in need.
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| Red Fox by Jan Haffley |
