Fox don’t care

Like Fox beauty comes and God
tippy toe testing the edge of awareness until
with a stroke of his fat brush tail –
the color of my November maple –
he marks the morning
unique among all possible mornings.

Fox don’t care.
He makes his rounds and I make mine.
Our circles rarely intersect.
There are no hounds or horns or horses
in my backyard, yet Fox patrols day and night.
What is it that he seeks?

There are the birds and squirrels
of course that I lure to my porch
with seed, and soon it will be time for
a den under the shed when the cold
comes for good. Then I’ll wake
to unholy howling in the night.

The neighbors fear for their little dog. But she’s
quicker than Fox so what’s the worry?
I see Fox – sunset flying in his tail –
go over their fence like air to steal
that dog’s chew toy just for fun. Then I laugh
to squeaking in the night.

But when Fox one morning stops to look
me straight in the eye, so close I see
a tiny me looking back, time stops.
This must be how God feels too when I look
her bold in the eye, so close she sees
a little god in me.

And then my prayer – of awe
or want or just plain thanks for Fox –
stops the clocks of heaven.
With a toss of his shoulder Fox wanders on
and leaves me empty and overflowing.
I talk about him for days.

Chris Fafard is a poet and photographer looking for beauty in the day-to-day. He writes in the belief that poetry offers light in dark times and richness in good. He has most recently been published in the Mid-Atlantic Review and The Amethyst Review, and is currently working to expand his reach. A lifelong resident of the Washington DC area, he lives with his wife Maria in Annandale, Virginia.

Featured image “Red fox (Vulpes vulpes crucigera) Skalnate Pleso 2” photographed by Charles J. Sharp to be licensed via creative commons 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons.