The Fox
       

Suddenly a fox.
Its red fur fact.

There was no fox
mangy, socked in black;

now the fox's head
vectors. Its unrolled

tongue tastes unfolding
air. It stands there, fabled

statue, unmoved since
ancient Sumer. First

no fox: snug garden,
rabbit grass, accurate

blade. Then fox: sudden,
silent, keen. Or was it

always the other
way around? Had I

not seen it? Not heard
its woof and snuff and bark

long before the lawn
had grown over the bones

we buried? Long before
we owned the home.

Before the lawn yawned
green and governing,

the sharp red head
cut the night.

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Copyright © 2021 Brian Lutz All rights reserved
from Little Patuxent Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission