Two red and two black kits emerge
from their nearby den. At my approach
mother becomes a decoy –
long, thick tail extended as she runs across
Hutchinson Street into a field, all the while
looking back at me,
kits long since disappeared down
between concrete slab and old shed.
I run away, disturbed
my marveling caused such reaction.
And more, such danger.
Remembering Murphy’s Hill years ago,
my son on a tricycle careening down
the road, steep and curved, and my self
alert to swerve before an oncoming car.
Remembering too, another fox, struck
crossing that hill road, intent
on a hen hunt in the Waremburgs’ red barn –
her pointed face, black eyes open, bloodied fur.
The kits remain hidden, waiting,
not yet weaned.