New.

Something new that attaches to my senses.

Rustles in the reeds, smells mixing with the damp rotting woods.

 Small, brazen, lumbering through my space

without rhythm or rhyme in breath and step.

If this is the seeking, how uncouth!

Graceless meaning merciless.

New. 

I am Ox.

Much has been written about me.

Dramatic battles that stand proof of my unruly nature.

It is said I was sought, found, won, and lost.

Perhaps.

What Ox is needed when there is only seeking, finding, winning, and losing?

And yet again, perhaps

there is truly that creature – so I am told –

that can only meet by moving towards or away

– or stand confused.

But I am Ox

and I only know oxish things

like eating, sleeping, voiding, and sighing deeply in contentment of being Ox.