Poem - written after passing a dead fox in the rain

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

Blood long dried and stilled
in a body cool and killed
fleet of foot but no one outruns death
and now just skin, fur, bone, no breath
is left behind.

Copyright: / 123RF Stock Photo