Somewhere between the dream of what it could be and what it wanted to be, this poem hightailed it out of town. Down the road it went, careening into hedgerows, jostling small birds from their resting time. Running for all it's worth, out to the sea cliffs then arrested, stock still, before all that immensity. Chagrined by such a rash attempt at escape, even blushing a bit, it wondered about strange things: What would it be like to be a badger? To always be dressed in all those lovely stripes? To never have bad wardrobe days? Or what about an otter, with such strong muscles, and an utter delight for swimming? To never really feel the cold? These are the things a poem can wonder about, when it isn't quite sure, just right then, in the present moment, how to be a poem.