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GBH on the TCH
She climbs up from the river
where she’s been drinking.
She ripples tawny, red, and orange
across the TCH.
As quick as a fox, they say:
black socks, brush winter-thick
held high and proud,
as quick as a shadow
melting into dark woods
on the highway’s far side.
Her cub follows close behind,
but he’s not quite as quick.
A passing car tries to swerve
only to grind him into the gravel.
Sudden, that fox-stink,
still clinging to my nostrils
like a slow-motion death,
dreamed at night,
frame by bitter frame,
until a life-time of silence
seals the lips of parted lovers.
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