In the hedgerow, just past the bend
where the old paths split but never end,
a young fox pauses, nose held high,
debating truths the winds deny.
He’s quick of thought, of paw, of glance,
already certain of each chance—
for why should age alone decide
what sharper minds can see inside?
“The wiser learn,” he’s heard it said,
“from paths that others’ footsteps tread.”
He nods—of course. It seems quite clear.
Why stumble when the route is here?
Yet still the brambles catch his fur,
the ground gives way, the scents all blur.
The map he holds—so neat, so true—
forgets the rain that soaks it through.
Above, the older fox looks on,
not sighing when the youth is wrong,
but faintly smiling at the art
of watching wisdom slowly start.
For every gust the young one names
is not the wind, but shifting claims—
and though he speaks with measured tone,
the forest teaches on its own.
So off he goes, with courteous bite,
to test each shadow, prove each right,
unaware (or half-aware)
the answers grow because he’s there.
And should he pause—just once, just when
the path feels less like “if” and “then”—
he might suspect, though never say,
the wind was busy all the way.
Verbal Alchemy 