I’ve watched her lope the meadows

of many summers,

tail full with winter,

her kits wobble on bony legs

atop the split log fence,

tussle in clover hay


The vixen unseen a second year now

I went looking for her den, gone

I suppose to rain, snow, thaw

and bad memory


I found tufts of fur caught

on the roots of a large old fir

but no signs of digging there


After a long afternoon

and no other clues

I could only sit on a log,

head in hands,

to wonder

my own self gone