By Anina Moore
Let’s dispense with the unnecessary details.
The fox in the path won’t tell you
the best way to self-medicate.
The fox in the path in broad daylight,
not far from where the universe
and its brother are climbing up
a giant pink granite batholith
and celebrating and drinking water
and checking out the tiny pool shrimp
and in some cases proposing to each other,
is there to turn its flat eyes at you
and shake its tail just slightly
as you try to identify it.
It makes more sense as a dog.
A member of the universe would take
his dog here for a hike in broad daylight.
Perhaps it belongs to one of the people
bouldering to your left. They seem
to pay it no mind, like it is normal, like it
is a dog. The fox also ignores them. You
are the one on the path, alone, since
your boyfriend has gone into the brush
to pee, and you are sort of standing guard.
There is no one to corroborate this
moment with, except the fox itself.
It is still standing there and so are you,
waiting for the telepathy to start,
for the message to be relayed.
Its ears twitch back, but this
means nothing to you. Perhaps
this nothingness just means
it’s a Shiba Inu. It makes more sense
as a dog but you know what dogs look like
Anina Moore is an arts administrator in Austin, Texas. Her poems have recently appeared in or are forthcoming in Winter Tangerine Review, Ghostwriters of Delphi, and Houseguest Magazine. She loves lemurs and dislikes corndogs.