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Through the frosty window, in crisp air and a silent sea of white I see the tiptoe of a fox, bright as a burning ember My breath snatched, I stare— dark eyes Then I see the mounds, scattered—
I live on a farm
Why is it that we assume that only humans are destined for greatness, That only we are allowed to live freely and love freely
I do not have a name. I have three friends To talk to, one behind And two beside. They’re the only ones close enough. We love to chat, but Sometimes we argue Because we’re all frustrated
We had thirteen chickens and no idea how to contain them. They were free poultry as bold and certain as birds can manage; they treated their coop as a daytime lounge.