Red Thread Through the Trees: A Fox Speaks
I move like a question
no one dares to ask aloud.
Soft-footed. Sharp-eyed.
I was born between shadows,
stitched from dusk and flame—
a whisper in the underbrush
with teeth.
You call me sly.
I call it survival.
I know the wind before it changes.
I know the hush that means danger.
I know how to vanish
without meaning to.
Your world is loud.
Metal, smoke, hunger that swallows
without tasting.
Mine is the flick of a leaf,
the crackle of something small
making the wrong move.
I don’t chase what doesn’t want to be found.
I wait. I listen. I know
how to want quietly.
At night, I run—
not to get somewhere,
but because running
is what keeps my name from rusting.
The earth sings in pawbeats,
and I answer,
red thread stitching a story
through the trees.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
