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“Missives” by Madison Scott-Clary (read by the author and Dralen)

The first story of Pride Month is “Missives” by Madison Scott-Clary, whose graphomania often gets the better of her. She’s the author of several books, with her latest, Toledot, currently in the process of being read for a podcast at anchor.fm/post-self. You can find more of her stories on makyo.ink.

When an exchange of love letters becomes perilous, love must either find a way to bloom in secret, or wither.

Read by the author herself, and by Dralen, the Dapper Dragonfox.

Read for you by Rob MacWolf — werewolf hitchhiker.

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https://thevoice.dog/episode/missives-by-madison-scott-clary

Transcript
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You’re listening to Pride Month on The Voice of Dog.

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This is Rob MacWolf, your fellow traveler,

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and Today’s story is “Missives”

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by Madison Scott-Clary,

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whose graphomania often gets the better of her.

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She’s the author of several books, with her latest, Toledot,

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currently in the process of being read for a podcast

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at anchor.

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anchor.fm/post-self. You can find more of her stories

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on makyo.ink.

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Words are hardly the only language.

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There is, for example, the language of flowers, an old-fashioned custom by which lovers could send messages concealed in gifts of bouquets. For example:

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A Rhododendron might be a warning of danger, while a Primrose could mean

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“I cannot live without you.”

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White lilies stood for "Purity"

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and Motherwort would mean "Concealed Love.

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Love." For a more practical example,

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read by the author herself, and by Dralen, the Dapper Dragonfox.

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Please enjoy “Missives”

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by Madison Scott-Clary

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Sir, If it please you, I write concerning our last meeting one week and six days ago

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at Mister G-’s manor,

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wherein we spent a happy hour discussing the finer points of his garden.

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You requested that I write back upon returning home

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and I find myself with

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unanswered questions.

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You asked about the maiden’s hair and I replied,

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out of haste,

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that I found it pretty,

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but perhaps too much to occupy the entirety of one’s garden.

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On further consideration,

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I have found that there is a thing of beauty involved in the simple maiden’s hair fern.

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The stem, I have decided,

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traces a most delicate arc, and the leaves describe a softness that I find lacking in

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many other such plants.

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In addition, you asked about the gardenias;

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I found them to be quite splendid,

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though I was initially taken aback by their appearance,

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so strikingly vivid,

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that I was taken aback by their hue and intensity.

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I know you’ve an eye for the bright,

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but I worry a touch that it was out of place.

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May I instead draw your attention to the gloxinia?

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I think it quite beautiful, though it be crouched lower than the rest.

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Knowing the keenness of your gaze,

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I trust that you saw it as well,

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though I hadn’t the chance to point it out at the time.

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Please do write me back with your thoughts, I remain curious. Yours,

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V. V., Jr. My dear fox,

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I was surprised and delighted to be greeted with your letter today, for I had feared that I was too forward in asking to continue our conversation in such a setting.

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The hour had grown late, however, by the time we were free of our duties,

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and I had much travel before me, and my hasty parting was in no way a reflection on you.

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I find your observations astute

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and in line with my estimation of you as a person.

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Knowing that, I say:

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Tho’ the flow’r may bloom ere long and night recede unto the dawn,

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so yet may love’s embrace grow fond and yet be spoilt upon the wan.

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For, as I’m sure you well know, too much water on the gardenia flower causes the soft white of the blossom to turn brown and discolor.

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Even such perfection of God’s creation as the flower be spoiled by too much of what is good for it!

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Thus it was that I had to depart in haste,

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though I found our time together so enjoyable.

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For that, a thousand apologies are in order.

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Though you declined to quote any of your favorite verse during our stroll through the garden,

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I hope that you do not mind the wandering words of your companion.

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A coyote finds much on his mind,

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surrounded by by books.

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Books! And yet there I was, enjoying a walk above all else.

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I’ve distracted myself, though.

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You mention the gloxinia,

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and I too think that such are quite the sight to behold.

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I don’t believe that it was the type of blossom to be seen by any who had passed by,

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so a fox’s gaze must be singularly acute.

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I will not hesitate to say that I think such flowers beautiful, as well:.

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How telling it is the things that we find pleasing to the eye!

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Alas, I must draw the line across the page here,

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but I do hope that you write back.

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Although our words be brief, so too will they sustain us.

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Yours in confidence,

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A coyote. Coyote, You speak of confidence,

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and although I cannot guarantee the security of my own words, I shall write to you in the same spirit.

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To walk with you in the garden that day was

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a rare joy. Though I spend my life in a comfortable home,

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I do indeed spend it.

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I feel the coinage of my Self slipping away by the hour, entertained

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only by my father’s attendants and the scant few visitors who pay us note.

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I could scarcely hope to escape the stifling manner of it all

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by a stroll through G-’s lovely garden.

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And yet there I was greeted by a most curious sight:

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a coyote had laid down his affected cane and knelt to inspect the flowers.

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I approached slowly and noisily to make my presence known,

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then squatted most ungracefully beside him to see the blossom at hand.

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I had no idea that the time that

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I would nearly cause my father embarrassment by dallying so long in the garden

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rather than being at hand.

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That coyote —

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that delightful companion — rescued me from the drudgery

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for not one, I’m told,

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but nearly two and a half hours! Oh,

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the way my father’s tail bristled when he confronted me.

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Chastened, I could not laugh, though

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I do now. I think that we had both wound up there in that garden for similar reason.

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Neither of us wanted to be at that party.

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I was bored of the routine,

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while you were repulsed.

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There were, I think,

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not enough books there to keep your mind active,

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no pens to keep your paws busy.

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And yet we talked.

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We talked of flowers,

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we talked of the day, we talked of the news.

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This all provided a pleasant afternoon, my friend,

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but do not think that I did not pick up on your words at the time.

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Your talk of maiden’s hair, that flowing fern,

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the plant of a secret bond.

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Your words of gardenias with

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their hints of secret affections and attractions.

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For I, too, know the language of flowers.

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I know also of the language of motion and of movement,

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for do not imagine that one of my station not be schooled in such.

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Our steps steadily

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began to move in time with each other,

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and those casual brushes of elbow to elbow, paw to paw,

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fingers to fur were not missed.

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I must admit that

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I didn’t so much as “catch you out”

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as gleefully reciprocate in this newfound closeness. Ah,

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it makes my ears light up to say so,

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but I miss that, dear coyote!

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It has been two weeks,

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and I’ve been taught that this is an appropriate amount of time to have passed before requesting the presence of a visitor once more.

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Would you, dear coyote,

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be so kind as to bless us with your presence four days hence,

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on Friday the fifth?

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Sincerely, Fox Fox,

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My goodness! Who knew that the fox had so many words within him!

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A pen, some paper, and a promise of confidence is all it took.

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You know, of course, that I jest.

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Walking with you in the garden that day was truly a delight,

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but I could tell that your tongue would be a long time in loosening.

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Don’t think that I am unschooled in the language of interaction simply because of my low station.

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Your words shall always stay safe with me, dear fox,

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the confidence is absolute.

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Let us speak further on the garden walk of some weeks past, then.

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You divine my intentions correctly when I bring up the maiden’s hair and gardenias.

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I find it fascinating that one such as yourself might even know to pick up on such allusions,

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never mind be able to bandy them back in turn.

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Gloxinia indeed! Could it be that you do truly feel this love at first sight that

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so many talk about?

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I’m sure I do not know.

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However, I must admit myself flattered all the same,

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that a pious and gentle critter such as yourself would stoop to spend a carefree afternoon with a poor poet

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and flower fancier!

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What is it, then, that you saw in me that was worth your time?

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It is only fair that I tease out your answer by providing something in return:

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Though ev’ry climax approach a denouement And ev’ry dawn a night,

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Ev’ry moment worth sharing May be worth stealing.

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Were it with you, Delay, then, the morn.

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In you, I saw that last cold breath of night before the morning,

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the promise of something spectacular.

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I catch myself wondering if it was something that is integral and permanent in you —

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will you always provide a glimpse of a bright day to come,

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or will you forever hover on the edge of darkness?

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There is no small part of me which is eager to see,

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but the most of me would enjoy the wait.

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Will some day to break within you,

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or will our affections be strictly something of dreams?

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Longings and pining that will never cease and yet cause the fire in the hearth to flag and

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yet keep the room all the warmer?

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Do tell. C- Dear coyote,

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What say you to my invitation?

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Your words are more than pretty,

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they make a poor fox’s very being yearn for a time when

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he may once again hear them with his own ears.

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However, they certainly do not address the issue at hand!

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Will you bless us with your presence?

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It is too late for the fifth, I fear, but perhaps you may join us for dinner on the twelfth?

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On that day that we spent together in the garden,

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I cannot help but remember most clearly

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as we were called away to our places

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for the evening’s festivities,

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when you laid your hand atop mine and said simply,

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“Come”. Perhaps it is something weak within my heart,

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but it is that touch, that smile,

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and that simple word after so many

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that touched me so deeply. That is what I

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long for again. So once more,

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“come”. It is I who am asking this time,

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and do not dodge the question again!

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Fox My delightful fox,

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Ahhh, is that then the dawn I spy approaching?

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Perhaps our dear fox does has some day within him yet!

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I find it singular that a book so quiet as this may lay itself open wide and be read by those with even the poorest eyes.

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If it were open the wider,

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if it were more plain,

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I do not think that I would be so pleased.

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And were it shut, were it hidden away,

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I think I should feel left out of the whole experience.

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As with the dawn, however, you approach slowly,

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carefully at first, and then with a surprising suddenness you breach the darkness and begin casting shadows.

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There is no hiding from a dawn such as this.

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Tho’ the heart may quicken –

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Tho’ the tongue may lap –

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I shall sup no greater meal Than thy gift entrancing

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You know as well as I that touch is not casual, but calculated.

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And that word, lonesome after so many had been spilled in that garden,

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was naught to be ignored.

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I say this not out of boast, though

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I know that I did well in making my intentions clear,

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but out of the fact that I, too, am left without a paw in mine.

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Desire is a tumultuous thing,

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and many an hour of sleep was lost to the remembered closeness.

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Ah, would that there had been more…

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You’ve answered my question, then.

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Now to yours. A dinner, you say?

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I humbly accept, and shall

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“come” at your bidding.

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The twelfth it is,

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please do expect me before tea, that we may spend some time recounting the virtues of flowers together.

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With the utmost fondness,

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C- My dearest coyote,

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I write hastily, as you have just left and I am

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to be going to bed and not up writing letters to you,

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if I am to keep from arousing suspicions.

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This must take the guise of a thank-you note —

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and it is! I want nothing more than to thank you right now.

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Thank you, thank you, and again thank you!

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To spend such an evening — to consider

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spending many such more —

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I do not hesitate to call myself smitten!

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I trust that you found the food palatable,

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for you certainly ate more than me or my father,

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and I fear the servants may even feel shorted tonight.

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I am happy to see someone enjoying with such gusto, however,

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and to walk the grounds with you

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both before and after the meal was

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more than a delight.

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You have such an eye for softness. Things that

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might miss the normal gaze, a hidden globe of clover here,

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the shy peeking of a late blossom of witch hazel there.

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It was such a delight

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to share both your company and your mind,

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to share a touch of paws

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or a kiss upon the whiskers.

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The kiss! You were so shy to move, so bashful after, I felt my heart breaking in two!

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And so was I: my stammering response must’ve given a poor showing,

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and no bravery in my heart let me return the gesture.

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The next we see each other, I shall make it

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up to you double and treble! Tens of kisses! Hundreds!

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I do hope that we will have the chance to spend further time with each other.

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As the primrose, I cannot

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truly live without you.

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As motherwort says, perhaps

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one fox’s love for a coyote ought best be concealed.

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I care not. A fox who would consider himself yours.

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To a fox whose beauty is surpassed by none,

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You have done such an eloquent job of thanking me for the evening together that I,

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for once, find myself nearly at a loss for words.

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The food was indeed wonderful,

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but paled in comparison to the delightful company.

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I found you and your father both well read, and keen with words.

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The walk within your own garden,

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around your splendid grounds, was not a thing that I will soon forget.

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I must address that kiss.

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I confess myself a shyer person than I perhaps present,

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and I found myself self-flagellating within my mind after the act,

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worried that I had perhaps misread,

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that I might have overstepped my bounds.

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To know that we could both blush so much…ah,

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well that is what will stick most firmly in my memory.

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To know that one such as yourself may dream of kisses to come,

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that is what will sustain me for the future.

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You find me at a disadvantage –

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Panting and aswish –

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Would that distance be traversed as easily As hearts t’wards yearning hearts

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I shall scarcely be able to write a line of verse for the longing that night engendered in me.

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Or, perhaps I shall be overrun with a words,

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unable to cease scribbling my poor lines for the desire of yet another small kiss.

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I fear it shall be the latter,

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that I am doomed to be forgotten among the countless smitten poets littering the streets with their oversweet verse.

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In evidence of my restraint,

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I leave you with only one more word:

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“again”. A coyote who would call you his own.

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Dear sir, I write at the behest of my father.

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It has come to my attention that a discussion of plants in a garden and a subsequent dinner has

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led to impropriety.

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The boundaries that are firmly in place by

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society and God’s law have been

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overstepped, and we toy with the sin put in place on this Earth by Satan himself.

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It would be best if

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we were not to be seen together again.

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May this final gift of both

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motherwort and primrose cuttings from our garden sate your desires,

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and may that be the last we be seen together

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as my family wills it.

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V. V., Jr. Reply to the esteemed fox of the household,

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I must offer my immediate and unconditional apology for any slight or dissatisfaction. It was my intent only to build a relationship of trust and kindness between equals,

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lovers of the word and of life.

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That my actions have caused pain and discomfort by encroaching too closely on your person

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causes me great pain in turn

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and is chief among my regrets.

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I will expect no reply in return,

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but let my poor words stand in place of any further deed

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that I may do to you and your family.

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But by your request, you shall not hear from this repentant soul again.

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A rose, single, now blooming may indeed bless the stem,

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yet are not roses clipp’d and shown?

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Undoubted ‘tis a blessing to them who receive such a gift!

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Yet now unmade is the flow’r which adorns thy mantle with its grace,

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and withers, however slowly,

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by the hour until ‘tis faded to nothing

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and dust, though some scent remain forever

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amidst the must. I take well the meaning of your letter and the final gift of flowers within.

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With sincerest contrition,

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C. L. This was “Missives” by Madison Scott-Clary,

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read for you by the author, as “C,”

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and by Dralen, the dapper dragonfox,

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as “Fox.” You can find more stories on the web

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at thevoice.dog,

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or find the show wherever you get your podcasts.

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Happy Pride, and Thank you for listening to The Voice of Dog.

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