Foxy by Nora Snyder

I’ve been thinking about foxes.
A lot.
Mostly in pictures.
My thoughts, I mean.
The foxes aren’t in pictures.
They are free, unframed.
And doing fox things.

I see foxes.
Like flames licking frosty expanses.
Like deep orange comets or afternoon suns crossing the horizon.

Or as an assemblage of shapes,
A lovely and familiar geometry,
Pleasing and simple-
Triangle ears, tear-drop rump,
Level end to end like a well executed yoga move,
Quick dainty feet and luxurious tail
An aspirational Disney ponytail with perfect volume and balance.
Its face an alluring exotic canine feline mix,
Angular yet appealing, whiskers cascading in impossible symmetry.


Breaking into this reverie I am reminded of the fox I actually saw,
In real life.
As it was crossing the uncertain, puddled terrain of a residential neighborhood.
Scruffy and unkempt,
Mud flicked and jaunty,
Its color a barely glowing coal against the slush.

I can relate to her sagging bottom and bristly tail,
Ears none too pert.
Her hungry face with features decidedly too sharp for beauty.

Is she a bad example of a fox?
Am I a bad example of a woman?

It turns out that we are BOTH actually GOOD examples
Of something else entirely.
Something not yet conceived.
A picture we have not even considered.
A form we have yet to appreciate.

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