Where from and where to,
Fox?
And, for goodness sake,
Why?

So early on a Sunday morning
You skim the air as a ghost
You glow like an ember

Left over from a campfire
Where the stories were

Delicious

Last night.

You are a messenger
From the place
Where primal stories
Merge with primal
Urges

And satisfaction is hunted down.

You fly by
Because you must;
You are a fox.

You know the story.
So do I.

We have departed
From the same place
Each in our own language.

We are not here

We never were

Don’t look back
Or at anybody,
Fox.