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