At the meadow’s edge the trees
will not stop talking.
They have so much to say about that space
too broad for them to touch across.
A fox, open in the grass,
offers a target.
The branches set to clacking. Birds
unroost, but don’t give a song.
They are not hens,
but watch the fox,
its attention fixed on a small hole,
dark tunnel running underground.
The field holds just the fox.
The trees turn inward,
rumor root to root.
A ruckus of boots through dead leaves.
The fox is just an empty field.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 23, Issue 3.
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