On Friday I drove the Mountain
The fox ran
from his den in the blackberry brambles
right in front of my car.
He looked at me with his yellow eyes
I wonder if he feels guilty.
In the ripe months of summer
he must find something to eat
I wonder if fox enjoys the feeling of a fresh kill.
He is sure in his movements
He is not afraid of the headlights of the car
We watch
each other for a split second
And I am so afraid of scaring him off
I fumble in my movements.
At night I sit in the grass
and pray to something bigger
The Trees want to whisper their secrets,
The crickets want to sing their songs.
I am desperately clinging
onto the meaning of something
begging for the body & the blood
wanting to fill & be filled
I am guilty of many things
Perhaps the bird will forgive me
There is a wild thing
In my Chest
(The fox) is hungry
It must kill sooner or later
after all, a fox is a sinful creature
-Gray Hiatt, 11
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