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