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
