Comment on this
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
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.