A migrant fox found me
sitting cross-legged and composed
in the clipped little system
of my front yard.
He was kingly and distant,
a perfect picture,
and I didn’t want to ask,
didn’t mean to make it awkward,

but he was the one who came to me:
free-willed, flame-backed,
he stood firm on his feet
beside my lap
and let me slip my hand
down the silk of his skin,
then test the gold waters
of eye contact.

And I longed for him then,
as he must have expected,
as all nomads and rebels
must keep their space
from this world of cages
and schedules and claims.

He felt the tightening
in my hands in advance,
before it ever came,
and so he looked at me long
and he vanished away.

But all this did not break the leash—
for once you love a wild thing,

you yourself are no longer free.