Fox

I saw a fox last week. It sauntered past
The window where I sat and ate and watched –
Eyes bright, tail swinging low, a casual air
Belied the steady purpose in each stride.
Was she (or he) off hunting? Or perhaps
He (or she) was seeking out new ground,
New territory, a place to call his own
In this post-adolescent world. I do
Not know. The fox passed by and then was gone
A mere momentary glimpse, which lingered long
Impressing into memory, fleshed out
By stories half remembered, myths once heard
Not of this actual fox but of its kind.
I could not see the fox before my eyes,
Without the shadow of its reputation.
Yet this fox, in this garden, on this day
May not have been at all like foxes past.
How true that fox and human both alike
Are carried by a weight of expectation.
The burden of our past, our name, our kind,
Can cloud the way we see, the way we’re seen
Until we, fox and human both alike,
Lose that which makes me me, and makes you you.
Yet I am I and you are you and fox,
Dear fox who travelled through my gaze that day,
Is fox. And we are none of us the same.

(c) Rich Clarkson 2018