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by Taylor Graham

Blame the foxes. And the cool
late morning, April. A little cloudy,
early lupine and brodiaea purpling
the grass like a pointillist
canvas. How could I be sure

what I saw, with shadows passing
into grass, flecked with paintbrush-
crimson feathering fine hair
of the vixen’s ears as she stared at me,
human out of my range.

And she was gone, with just
a glimpse of her kits scampering
into disappearance.

Monet knew how fast things change.
Light into shade, and breath like shapes
across the palate. And how heavy
the eye, the retina stiff

as a canvas unrolled to catch one image
as the rest of the visible morning
comes rushing in, complete

with a log lying at my feet,
just waiting to trip me.

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