|
| |
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.
Copyright ©
Evelyn Hew
|
|