The Fox

Starts at its own alertness.
Does not sleep completely
or for long. Sleeps on the run.
Always has two errands:
to get where it's going
and to miss nothing. Knows
it is prey, yet loves
the getting away. Has a long,
bushy, significant tail,
which it holds out like
a reason for being. Jumps
at a whimper somewhere
under the snow, swerves
at a single filament
of the complicated air,
suggestion of muskrat,
scratch of falling star.
Harkens at the beetle,
is stopped by the oddness
of dropped limb, hissing
of grasses, succulent grub.
Came once, when called, halfway
across the field. Almost
forgot what we were, where.
The two of us, standing there.

Copyright © 2004 Roger Mitchell All rights reserved
from Delicate Bait
The University of Akron Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission