Crows hang heavy on the hill light dusk,
lung-tarred they call against the night
encroaching craw. And bite, down
the grassing path, speckle dotted
daisies peek, angled from the tired track
of downward toiling trek. It is then
you see the circled crash of fox:
breaking, startled, and back
into the unfern crisped dry brush;
and you stand; still. You taller then, spotting
the cowered yellow ears, snarled in weighing fight.
The invisibility of reality plainly sees
the ermine in the fur of waiting grass, but not
that snare that holds your gaze, and its.
Of what is too clear. A tunneled tube
to hold all time, and the very air
of inhaled worlds and gone.