A Gamble
mousy,
brown against black,
scurrying on paws
once maple lobes,
wind its muscle,
decay its flesh.
mottle dripping off,
such brittle rot.
it rushes a busy tire,
eager to kiss,
earn an autograph,
or perhaps a speck of peace.
always so swift,
Fate obsessed with dice games,
rolling over and over,
bidding leaves to tumble
and resolve.
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