i wonder if the fox sees what is there
the trees wiggling in a rain-filled pothole puddle
the falling leaves, reds and yellows
strips of sun, like god, in rays
if he hears the birds or the drowning engines
or my footsteps coming up behind him
my gasp at his greyness, his mustard brown
does he smile at the grey mushrooms springing up between the planks
or squinch when he stubs his toe on a bridged root
does he know that this is all his?
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