The Swamp Fox



South Carolina: late summer.

The fox waits.

Daisies in the field, ash on the wind.

Others will come.

The world tilts in a direction

no one expects but him.



The fox: creature of wile,

emissary of rebellion.

He sets the fires.

He was built to destroy.

He cannot wait for time’s entropy

to do the job.



Daisies: dead now.

The horde awaits the fox’s failure,

but he is become amphibian, alluvial.

What unnecessary days they waste,

hoping for him

to let his world fall down.



The others: nothing like him.

He smells the fear in their meat,

vile & turbid. Unfocused.

Instinct tells him to mangle.



The world is his: cypress,

shallow waters, moss.

He will drown them, his lawlessness

transformed into righteousness.

The air grows heavy with adrenaline.



No one: a fox undone.

Limbs strewn, hunger unsated,

he fumbles now.

The verdant days have disappeared.


By Caitlin Johnson


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