He stares from glazed snow banks like a country gentleman frozen on fire.
He paws nimbly at his pup’s delight beneath letters so basic, yet worth lots in Scrabble points. He peers past his frame to a white-walled horizon above the beginning of an ode or fable. He stands, a plush sentinel to delivery trucks, tulips, and the tide of any ol’ day’s awning. He guards an unidentified bouquet from its own falling petals, or his skulk of peering
doppelgängers, their eyes looking every way but his. He is the skulk glossed into inertia with dimpled coats that cannot be skinned. He overtakes the mantle with near perfect prescience encountering the stop of youth’s hypnotic gaze trotting along his perch. He is fallen upon a soft side. His paws suggest black staircases like a skulk’s shadow brother. The skulk is still
lost in their own art of gathering. The fox contemplates the line in the space,
the space in the line, the curve of the serif, and the case of the letter. Sans context he is upright in the void of knowledge, tail curled neatly against perception’s fluff. He is a trio of absorption facing the load of a pastel name. He is a leaping, glowing runner in the mooning night. He is caught in a kitsch rococo pounce, appallingly removed from his prey. He is teaming with a Romanticism upon the crossbars of a discordant landscape.
The fox is pierced through the midsection by the white dot of his own myth,
reflecting multifarious footprints upon another finely retreating snow bank, encircled by even more rococo kitsch. His back is turned towards another Arctic trail where an unfamiliar noise distracts. His head faces forth once again with four hundred times more force than before. His primitive valor skirts between frame after frame. His pup rests without worrying over the sign round his protector’s neck. He watches the door on his haunches, he watches while watching from all corners, watching himself watching, even his watching watching.