fox

The guy ahead of me, a young lad, was being spoken to like a fool. He had been called up from his seat in the corner, and his only mistake was that he had arrived too early. ‘Why didn’t you let us know you were here? Why did you wait so long?’ The girl behind the counter said. And I’ll admit, that probably sounds alright, but when you’re a job seeker, and you get to know the atmosphere better than you wish, it’s not.

The hills were the only thing that could improve the day, and the river, and a love for the river. And inbetween the villages, or at least when you have the time to take in their sun, swans, and lonely herons, there is more life than life. I walked back from the village where I signed on and remembered to walk slow. Even the cars were drowning in the river. The river of greens and blues. I sat on a bench and smoked , kicked back the sky, and ate the world for a while. It tasted like a long ship, drifting near a rabid sun, that reflected in the water. And behind me the moors expanded. Including and rippling along with a dark haired woman wearing a black dress in the spring, along the beach, along with our cool words, the swearing gulls, and along with time.

The sickness always leaves when you walk with nature. There is no time, only the harsh weather which has brought sand in from the bottom of the river, and two bobbing otters play and hunt. I don’t even notice them. Then a man looks over to me, another who also has time, and points at the slick animals swimming near by, taking photos. I look over and see them, and we take the time to enjoy the rarely seen by daylight creatures.

I check the years that have passed, on a day without night, and feel the hunger of the sun. It smears my face, and reminds me that Britain is still a place built by so many mercenaries. The swans, cormorants, and kayak club are wild Vikings. I continue walking along the river as it becomes late, and the broken street lamps offer no light. A young couple walk towards me chattering about something, drowned out by the rumble of music in my ears, and feel the need to take a photo of me, holding a phone in the night, to let me know that they’ve recorded my face. Making me wonder if an altercation would actually be a good idea, although, all vitriol departing a fraction of time on. Take a photo of a walking man if you wish, mon chere.

It’s later and the trees have poems. I walk with them and stop at a local park. I scribble down a few things as it begins to rain, and long arrowed groups of birds fly below the moon. A car pulls into the car park booming with bad music. One of them gets out and walks around to the boot. And the night speaks to the morning over a long distance relationship. There’s drinking and the smell of lucid cigarettes wafting over. There’s definitely several men and one woman. One of the men starts trying to wave me over, and I wonder what happened to normal nights of no desire, I desire like anyone else, but not for the mixing of flesh with strangers.

I close my note book and depart. Back into the woods, and the sadness of trees. Yet, it is not sadness. The feeling is closer to the smell of wild garlic and peace. It’s a steep walk up, and there is no path, the den of the forest multiplies as I walk, places to sit, branches to cross your face, and an open expanse of cool wet shrubbery, where small parts of rain make their way down. Tomorrow I’ll apply for several jobs. Ghost of the moors, and animal of the fields. I’ll hold my tongue to the moon, and say low things to the soil, walking like the planets, and accepting their verse.

And although the world will not dance beyond its own petri-dish, it may, and I’ll hear that a friend has had a short story recorded, and listen to it laughing like a humoured storm. A man will be fined $10,000 for asking a woman out, and there will still be those that act on the blood of instinct instead of tepidness. We will make more mistakes, and the owls will swear harder and harder until they are complete. I’ll have to buy a piece of plaster board and cover it with rapid strikes of paint. I’ll speak to lassy and we’ll both dismiss the strangeness of it all. A scarf will be delivered that’s meant to be covered with eagles, and I’ll wrap it up as a gift, and explain all that. Then we’ll kill another work day and call it a poem, and walk down by the river at night.

There’s the perfume of day, and the vitality of two. And we won’t be held by the darkness of dumb reactions to life, we’ll react with our own prayers and create our own religions with each moment. Some will have to be scrapped, perhaps too heady with the antediluvian jacket of motions from the past. Then we’ll make the day human. Strip its mask like a fox outrunning scum across the moors, with the vigour of an orange star, darting this way and that until it is home, then finding that a law has passed against such vulgarness. And. There are those times when humanity wins, in the reflections of animality, and the way we can all take bravery from their dance.

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