I am the fox both sly and cowed
Wearing my delicate awkward legs through the forest

Leaving the breadcrumbs of my footprints on the blank page.

That is one self. The other is the black strikes of the trees.

That isn’t it.
The trees are the trees.

What then? The arrow in the bow?
What preys on fox?

Nothing but the mouth of the trap buried beneath its next step.
I am also that. And the snow that covers it.