originally published in Q/A Poetry

when a cliché, she’s wily,

cunning,

crazy as a fox

in her foxy coat

made slyly

of her own fur

when not,

she escapes the brush,

crosses the road,

cut by hunger’s knife

to seek the fleeing prey

when a cliché, the

a gentleman farmer

slows his late-model rig

to spare her thieving life,

impatient then

for his game of golf

when not,

he marvels at

her leap into

denser wood,

her drive just to live

and not be seen

Writer & Poet. Find me at anneleighparrish.com

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