I used to be tiny.
A teeny tiny creature,
A selfish little thing,
Cozied up and warm,
A cat,
On a rug,
By a fire,
Content to simply be
And not have to work for anything.
A house cat.
I used to watch mice run by and think,
Why should I,
One cat of many,
Why should I
Have to catch that mouse?

I am not like that anymore.
I hope.
I'd like to believe,
But now I am more of a fox,
A little dissatisfied,
A little untrusting,
A little bit too alone
For it to be any good for me
But I prefer it,
The company of myself
And the circus in my head of
Colors and characters and lives,
Dreams,
Birds,
People whose lives take flight
And soar and flip and glide
Through untouched, unconquered skies:
I have them in my head,
And I want to be them so bad.
But I am just a fox.
And foxes cannot fly.

I will be,
One day,
I hope,
A bird.
Big and bright and beautiful.
I want to be a grand sort of bird,
One that people know of and speak of,
Look up to.
And with any luck,

One they'll never forget.