With pointy ears and chin. Tiny foxes curled around the white picket fence Grabbing hold and climbing, Twisting, swirling, Shooting their hair like tendrils Up toward the branches of the birch Entwining itself in the thickest part of the Privet hedge. I should have torn it out, Should have ripped it up by the roots. But then the little foxes would have shriveled up Brown and brittle. I just couldn’t kill, Not on purpose. And now? Now I find myself wrapped in a knit robe of green. Tiny foxes nip at my lips My arms locked in a verdant straight jacket My legs no longer dance through the tall grass. Slowly, I succumb; Give in to the curling, crushing shoots. And some day 7 Myrmecophila Jasmine Zhao ’28
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