Fox
It was from the low road he first saw the fox,
black and alone in a field of snow.
Behind, before the second field, a bank
of bushes, three trees, blown by the wind,
secret signs in the afternoon light,
a frozen moment, a now written down.
The fox had stood still and looked and he looked
back, saw that the fox saw him, and saw
the white marking under its head, its brush
like a prolongation in the white snow
Everything was empty, he too, the fox made
a decision and raced off, a long streak
against the white, a tale of speed
and fear, its paws now another
foursome, Hebrew letters on a blank sheet,
beginnings of a script that remains on
the photo, a winter afternoon tale
man and fox, light and man and beast,
there is only this.
Second, stillness, fox,
only this
poem.
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