I follow after a fox with hubris.
The vixen is after a house cat - she peddles at the damp earth,
scraping claws, against yielding mass; in swift motion,
all in order to fill her bladder with lust
whilst all I want is to empty mine in peace.
I, a big blurred mess, move in to police their small war
and it's already over, for the cat scrambles over a high wall.
The nefarious red cousin pads away with impunity
down a non-existent aqueduct in an alley that wasn't there.
I peer down a construction well, deep, wet and with grit;
faint cream soda, chalk and water, oil and polished mud.
The paint is absorbing moonlight and hiding it from sight.
Accepting their terminus, lunar rays are put away.
Another shape - unique in its sense of direction, of purpose;
she's fox, cat and oil, all at once -
glides straight across my vision, to disappear outright.
A black plastic bag comes into play.
Taking careful step upon missed careful step,
without knowing the why of it,
I shuffle toward that evil thing,
Did I imagine its motion, that soft churning,
or was it actually moving?
The toe of my boot tells me it's held down by its contents -
a lead base or dead weight tacks it to the ground,
of course it must be something dead that was once alive,
so my face hardens, wincing. Still for a while,
then I vault the walls of a captured wilderness,
greens held hostage, into my stopgap sanctuary, where I fret:
there is no home for the wild.
Finn G. Cargill is a writer and poet living in Glasgow, and has more work available here.