The Fox

What she is, is a scavenger,

scavenging my yard in the dark

hours before dawn, searching

the snowbank for a mouse scurrying

between the snow and the warm wall

of my home, survival, this series of tunnels,

a safe escape for his daily bread

in short supply this winter. Or perhaps

she’s searching the snow below my feeder,

bird seed scattered, dropped, free

for the taking, anything to nurture her

and the kits sheltered nearby, hidden.

The squirrels, too, scavenged, fewer

in my yard these past weeks; maybe

the lucky ones are the ones I caught

and took away, perhaps, though, not

so lucky, in this daily fight for survival,

as we all must, daily, as we all do.