Ode To The Fox

Men of few words are the best men

Their words drop like moonlight in the shape of still waters

and are imprinted indelibly on the sands of time

I will tell you of a quick witted fox

whose sly charm conceals its humble demeanor 

It makes frisky trots to the bubbling dance of afro oaks in the wind

It glides the sky like a keen hawk casting a glance on the diverse stories hidden in the landscapes

The stories of barbarians who babble words that fall on hard ground, never to sprout again

or the screeching parrots whose chatter bounce from branch to bough

The sloth hangs humbly on its branch, few of words but daydreams of nature 

But the fox is an erudite of the woods 

reading the tales of oaks scripted on their barks

It lives in the tales. It walks with it and graces it with the wag of its furry brush

Then it swallows it like pills and spits it out like a playful wordsmith

The fox trots on the afro beats of the forest

Beats of the ruffled grouse like the distant slow rhythm of blacks moving in strategic circles

The vibrant colours standing out in their fabrics 

The feathers on their head rising and falling to the rigorous spins 

The pitch of their screams hanging at the tip of their tongues, piercing into the ears of many

Their steps taps to a thousand stories and the fox knows all

It had read it on the barks of the whispering giants.

©Ola Femi