People Foxes

The people have become foxes,
eyes shot with terror's marrow.
Copper leaves quiver,
anxious about autumn's nature.

The air smells of soil, as busy as ants.
Hands of brittle roots claw at the plants.

We see no hounds.

The trees have become saints,
sentinels in the mist
which pray, in peace, for us mortals.

At their feet,
what were foxes have become people,
babes of wet skin curled in a new-found rest.

They see no hounds.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.