Fox sat on the fence,
Reluctant to jump and run through one field or the other.
Afraid to forgo
The mouse in the patch
That he’d never have time to explore.
Crow flew on by with a wink and a grin and a crackling cry to his fellow,
“Fox, poor old Fox, don’t hesitate thus,
The moments, you know, are so fleeting.
Your passion will wilt,
There on the rail,
For your want of the courage to leap.
Swat doubts clear away from the choices that sway
Temptingly close to your muzzle,
And, pray, pick one field or the other.”