The snowy editor erased most of their stories again,
leaving faint marks of their plots on the moonlit page.
Sufficient are the outlines of their quests,
their obstacles, their original stories, that tonight
the authors will rewrite slightly different versions.
They have confidence in these ancient plotlines.
Again, they’ll be full of heroes and villains,
anti-heroes and victims, in tales told
not in black and white, but in shades of gray
and perhaps a spot of red. Such ultimate punctuation
signifies The End of one storyteller’s tale,
but the serialization of the other’s.
Each spring they seem to be publishing
more of their genres. In the case of the rabbits,
they populate the verdant book stalls of my yard,
of late, like paranormal romances and mommy porn.
That is, until fox busts out with all her new
midnight murder mysteries and chase thrillers.
When I sat down to write this poem, I had expected to go in an entirely different direction. But I followed the trails of tracks the rabbits and foxes left in the snow and they led me to this bit of winter poetry. I’m not thrilled with the last verse, but I’m a human and I’ll leave it to these wordless authors to so poetically tell the true tales of hot blooded life and cold running death.