I’m a quiet, red fox,
on rooted twists of a tree,
conceal we do, happily.
Are you? Well, I’m trampled
moss haiku, dry, that’s me,
please, Mr fox, tread carefully.
Moss, you may complain,
but you’re good comfort
in a japanese terrain.
Oh, Mr fox, while we’re at it,
you dislodged my blossom,
though an old tree, I still feel it.
Blossom, I followed my nose,
and moss, you aren’t quite haiku,
of that the wind knows.
