self conservation

leave the fox on the hill;
growing streetwise, stunning
in his winter whims

I owe him nothing, owe him
everything and more

but here he's taken straight,
licking gauzy wounds and ranging
less and less below dense arms
of branched forest, sundered

he knows too well his fates,
that any man could take him
blue and pale and lacking
to the edge of death (and the sea
that sways before her)

for my part I know no tune
to tell him not to worry, tell him
not to give up on the human hand

so let him be as jaded, as cynical
as the world will make him; rigid
spine perking up his ears and softly
say goodbye before he goes