Where the fox dug

at the roots of an old aspen

is where her kits

left tufts of fur


She’s loped the meadows

of my many summers

tail full of winter

and many months gone


I’ve watched her kits

test their bony legs

on the split log fence

and tussle in clover hay


A second year the fox unseen

I went looking for the den,

gone to rain, snow, thaw

and bad memory


The path there was missing too,

cluttered with branches, crackling leaves,

and I could only sit on a log

to wonder my own self gone