Poem - written after passing a dead fox in the rain

Reynard in Rain

Fur; dirty, limp, in flying spray
sad and quiet, laying flayed
each passing car is washing fur
the only sound the rasping purr
of an engine.

Blood; long dried and stilled
in a body cool and killed
fleet of foot but none can outrun death
and now just skin, fur, bone, no breath
is left behind.

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