Fixit the Fox and the Forest of Change

A tech-era twist, blending fable and futurism to explore what happens when quick fixes, bureaucratic delay, and blind faith in technology replace wisdom and care.

By Ross Boulton

Deep in the glades where the willow winds weave,

The creatures all gathered one curious eve.

A rustle, a hum, a flicker of light—

Something was coming, fast as a kite.

A flash in the sky, then a thunderous whoosh,

Down swooped a fox in a fiber-glass swoosh.

With goggles aglow and a tablet in paw,

He shouted, “I’m Fixit! I’m here to fix flaw!”

“Your systems are slow! Your moss is misgrown!

Your pathways are tangled, your rules overblown!

I’ll snip and I’ll swap, I’ll clean every glitch—

This forest,” he grinned, “needs a silicon switch!”

Eagle the Loud gave a powerful flap,

“Only I fix things—but this fox has the map!

Let him run DOGE—Department of Greens—

He’ll prune all the waste from the leaves to the beans!”

And so Fixit started with circuits and screens,

He measured the chirping of songbird routines.

He canned the complaint of the beaver’s old dam,

Replaced it with charts and a flood-control cam.

“No more traditions,” he proudly declared,

"Goodbye to the owls who said they once cared.

Their books are outdated, their warnings too slow—

I’ve got an app that predicts every woe!”

But Pip, the young owl with feathers of gold,

Stood up and spoke out, just a little bit bold:

“You’ve fired the watchers who guarded the skies!

The forest is more than just numbers and ties!”

Fixit just chuckled and waved a bright wand,

“Progress is messy. Don’t grow too fond.

I’ll finish my streamlining, trim every log—

Then blast off and leave you to jog your own cog.”

High on the cliffs where dead tree limbs bend,

The Buzzard Flock watched with no clear end.

“We’re monitoring closely,” they cooed with a bow,

"We’ll circle the issue—just not right now.”

They filed some papers, they drafted a plan,

They formed a subcommittee... then off they ran.

While Pip called for action and Maple honked loud,

The buzzards just muttered and vanished in cloud.

Maple the Goose gave a sharp honking shout,

“Our systems are cracking! The soul’s bleeding out!”

But the Buzzards, still circling, offered no aid—

“Let’s wait till it’s safe,” was the only call made.

Tao the Tiger, in shadows concealed,

Watched as the forest’s fate was revealed.

“If chaos takes root,” he thought with a grin,“

There’s room for a tiger to quietly win.”

And poor Whimsy the Squirrel, with wide worried eyes,

Saw algorithms blooming where mushrooms should rise.

“This isn’t a forest,” she squeaked with dismay,

“It’s data and silence—and everything gray!”

Then one final whoosh! and a vanishing gleam—

Fixit flew off like a half-finished dream.

“I’m done!” he called out. “My mission is clear!

Your forest is efficient—no need for me here.”

And left in the hush, with systems all blinking,

The forest folk stood there—quietly thinking.

But Pip and the owls, with feathers still fluffed,

Rebuilt what they could with wisdom well-cuffed.

They planted back balance, they listened to streams,

They guided the forest through code-riddled dreams.

Moral:

A fixer with speed may arrive in a flash,

But quick-clever claws can leave quite a crash.

When buzzards just circle and owls are dismissed,

The heart of the forest is quietly missed.

Change isn’t wrong—but it must come with care,

With voices that listen and minds that are fair.

For laws that just linger and tech run amok,

Can leave a whole forest down on its luck.