Foxy, Foxy

One of the joys of living in the country is the wildlife. I'm hanging out of the back door, shouting for the cat to come in and get his tea when, instead, a huge dog fox calmly emerges out of the trees about thirty feet away from me.  As I gawp at him, he calmly walks across the lawn, stopping a couple of times for a look around, then vanishes into the trees at the other side.  Wonderful.

Reynard

Emerging through a hole in the fence

Under the mist-harbouring trees

Following his usual route

He trots confidently into the open

Pausing in his transit of the track-way

To stop and take stock of his world 

This is no creeping, crawling, skulking specimen

Engaged in crepuscular activities

But bold as brass in broad daylight

A huge dog-fox in full fig

Confident, setting the world at defiance

Unafraid, un-hunted and un-hurried 

His muzzle hangs open, panting gently

His eyes glinting and flashing

Reflecting afternoon sunlight

Wild, alert, fiercely alive

Nose, ears at full attention

Looking and listening

Appraising the scents carried on the breeze

The direction, the lie of the land

The prospects for further hunting

And scavenging forays

Among the local hen-houses

And rabbit-burrows

Which lie within his rural realm 

Head turning slowly

He directs his guileless glance

Towards the exact point

Where I am watching him

Silently, hardly daring to breathe

Burning his steady stare into my eyes 

Then, as if he hears the distant vixen

Nursing quarrelsome cubs

Calling to him from the earth

He slips away, back into the trees

With a flamboyant flash of his tail

As if he had never been there

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012