Fox is like a companion.
Sometimes we are one as one can be, just me with pointed flicked back (but usually only one) ears; all my teeth at the ready to smell the wind and neatly flick-and-curl around every leaf in the forest on my way home. Or persons in a crowd, more likely.
Sometimes, we are less we, but halfway only me, in an odd ephemeral place that doesn't really distinguish itself well to words or thoughts. Not an in-between point, but still a liminality.
Sometimes, I'm just borrowing a little extra silence powder; my feet are no longer all toes and flat, but tiny lit-in-the-night pinpricks of pressure, the kind of... - remember when you did this on all fours in another life, in another book, many moons ago? You remember how it is to fly sing and dance so now let's combine all of those and put on a soundless (mundane) show of being invisible and stealing those damn sweet things and getting away. Cross reference.
Fox is I, me, companion, not separate, always there, sometimes sleeping like a cat-yawn-stretch-turn. Sometimes dis-consciously forgotten, but never never never not there.
I notice. Others don't unless they're animal too, and even then, we don't read minds, just habits and quirks and, if we're good at it, smells.
(Fox guide is sometimes not there, despairingly empty and I'll keep on trotting forward into my sleep without whispers of guidance, but it's not His or their jobs to be there all the time - just send me mail every once in a while with ordinary things like the milk and my groceries.)
It is my job to listen, always.
It's come to a point where, like learning literary theory, though I'm very capable, intelligent, even by about half of the people I know's standards, I still feel like I've gotten tired of distinguishing between things, tired of the specifics, tired of having to retell a story of an ever-changing beautiful picture.
(Can't you just see all of those be’s and inbetween’s and really - just go and fucking read the whole book will you already? It's all there, I’m all here, plain as day, dusk, and night. I’m separated and distinguished in flames and pages and phrases, writing for myself and you, except, I don’t really have to for myself, so why do I describe and redescribe myself to you?
I feel as if I should be present in your imagination, crystalline, legible… I should I should- But I know this and I may also be dismayingly as clear as mud.)
I don't feel this feeling that I do now in a deflated sort of way for the most part, but really, I know all these atoms and thoughts and furs are one and one only and I can see the parts and pieces, not usually all at once, but I'm slow and aging-edging away from wanting to try and gather words to describe the flash of teeth that are snapping in a strong stance, or just the melting into a warm cozy space and sometimes curling belly up... - back scratches are really the best.
And the best may simply be to just be and quit describing. It's one thing to want to excavate and discover, another to just feel and be and record the occasional thought that is usually forgotten until it's rust-melded into its surroundings.
I do not like being prompted and forced to search for my calendar and toolbag of words, but every time I read something, it prompts me to have pictures and sounds that jangle in front of my eyes, only to skitter away when it's time that I decide yes, I have enough of these that I could take my ark and rebuild the world in a paragraph.
Fox is an intersection of body, physicality, tweaked and colourful mentality. Fox is with me always, when I'm lonely, sad, - maybe then I don't feel so lonely, except they-and-we also feel lonely so it's twice as lonely sometimes. An odd distinguishing thing, we are.
Him and I; I and me.
(We're wild gods, you and I.)