The Swamp Fox

Daisies

I.

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.

 

II.

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.

 

III.

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.

 

IV.

The others: nothing like him.

He smells the fear in their meat,

vile & turbid. Unfocused.

Instinct tells him to mangle.

 

V.

The world is his: cypress,

shallow waters, moss.

He will drown them, his lawlessness

transformed into righteousness.

The air grows heavy with adrenaline.

 

VI.

No one: a fox undone.

Limbs strewn, hunger unsated,

he fumbles now.

The verdant days have disappeared.

 

By Caitlin Johnson

 

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