FOX


Dreams where something had struck or happened and there was a catastrophe. Yet, many people lived and the water was surrounding cities, - brown and ugly water as some kind of walls had broken and the world’s water came rushing in from places. There was a man with a phone, and there was still phone reception, in parts, for then, for a time, for some reason. What other odd dreams were there? Hard to remember.

In real life as they call it, the fox still wanders the townships. The fox is not red and brown but rather looks dark brown. He has come far too far up from his home, - more than just being a bit adventurous in the night to look in a few garbage bins. No, he doesn’t belong up here, - though perhaps it is us that really should not have belonged. Because of a thumb and a big brain and some other things we have managed to all take over. If the dream was real, maybe the water will take us and our abodes and infrastructure and leave somehow again the fox.

The fox is a few feet long and because of its sprit and bone structure and hair, its gait and a kind of electric positivity and agility, - it is beautiful and wondrous. I can understand why the old saying about a good looking woman, - ‘She’s a fox.’ And ‘She’s foxy.’ I can see how that was borne and said and stayed for a long time. The fox has this innate beauty for the way it is composed on the one hand, and the way it moves on the other, - a bit more gliding and poetic than even the best dogs or coyotes. Something feral and free (sort of free), wandering all around, - no school or notebook or headache for the fox, no bosses or red tape, - but I suppose he has his own problems to ponder in his own way (or hers). And so there it goes along the way, looking around, and the sun shining on its coat and ears and tail. Fox fox fox and fox-fox. I mean, what can you really say about a fox anyway?

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