Day Twenty-Seven
It had been a hot day
And Lizzy was glad she'd worn linen.
Having put in a jolly good shift, soon,
the sun would be heading for bed
and the blackbirds,
with the conclusion of their encores,
sang Goodnight, God bless.
Then, a peculiar quietude
slunk into the evening.
As though the venerable ash
had taken up, lightly, a knife and
crystal flute, and tinkle-tapped the day.
There was not a soul at the bus stop.
The air hung, as if trampolining.
Into this stillness, there sauntered
a fox. Brazen as the moon is full and
russet, with a deadpan panache.
From the clasp of her jaw was slung
an extraordinarily plump hen.
The fox noted Lizzy by the bus stop.
And seeing there were no buses
nor cars, nor dogs, nor children,
and seeing that the dusk was ripe for walking,
she stepped oh-so softly into twilight,
taking home her remarkably fat chicken.
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