Musings #40


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.