The Fox, he ran 'til the shore and the sand
he met on a gray twilight morn.
"'Tis the edge of the world! Why, isn't it grand?
I have found where Sky is born!"
cried the Fox to the whispering Sea.
The Sea, hissing back, chided and laughed,
"What a fool is the Fox on the sand!"
then soaked with a spray and a cold fuming draught
the Fox who shook on the land.
"Why," yelped the Fox, "would you do that to me?"
The Sea merely sneered, called him a name,
and dared him to dance on a wave.
"I trust you not, your come and go, nor your game,"
said Fox, "nor scent like a grave,
but what choice have I?" and in splashed he.
Fox paddled and swam and the Sea rushed out
and carried the Fox far away.
It dropped him near death with a thundering shout,
dripping beside a blue bay,
where the Fox sopped himself from the Sea.
The Fox merely sighed and looked far away
and his tail 'round himself he curled.
"I, once again, at the end of the day
am just a fox at the edge of the world,"
yawned the Fox to the whispering Sea.
I wrote this last time I was on vacation at the seaside.