Every One, a Gift

Photo by Zdeněk Macháček on Unsplash

Tiny fox ears poke above the tangled grapevines,
Circle of fawn lays invisible beneath my feet in mid-air,
Flying ermine arcs past my lunch spot, lands on mouse,
White head and bold eyes poke above the snow.
Dappled-sunlight-spots surprise us on the cliff’s edge.
Stuck between a rock and a hard place, sandstone is
Weasel’s prison, or his fortress.

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