Werefox Vaquero--Tolstoy's Gospel?

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--Tolstoy's Gospel?"
   
   Ela was aboard the bouncy ride of a candy wagon, helping haul the grub and goodies to the other cowboys.  As the wagon wheels rotated, underneath the Sun's brilliant gift to all, she pondered herself, as a cowgirl; plus, an investigative mind, remembering:  Blake, Jefferson, Tolstoy--all forged Gospels, in a sense, Tolstoy reflecting upon "resist not evil" and all, and her knowing G. Gordon Liddy said God is beyond our comprehension, yet Plotinus with simplicity; regardless, like a NASCAR student--drive right on through Ricky Bobby; specifically:  SHAKE AND BAKE, BABY.  
   Ela grabbed her own portion, as only she could, thought about her foxy lady inside and all the fabulous friends a type of Grandfather had gifted her with, knowing humility is not being somebody's bitch, for a bitch will turn in the end, possibly putting glass in your food, or however it goes.
   She would retain the kit fox and camouflage, yet as the animal became more animated among the Arizona strip malls, not uncommon to see them scrambling around in the parking lot, just little dogs, making a living as do we all, judged by their size, never their heart, like Samson's mighty fist on a superhero leap-down in shocking fashion, to align the Earth with a proper and victorious vibration; moreover, Ela fought off a smile, not proud, but adoring her chipped front tooth, which somehow brought a crooked Han Solo kinda smuggler's grin to the countenance of Max, and how she adored him, never wanting to wash a lizard's feet, yet soak a bird in the clean of aqua, chat with the messenger, and watch it fly off, programmed to do its seemingly angelic job, as if innately and always knowing--it's a darn cool bird.