Cold end of afternoon, frost
still scratched into stubble grass,
the sky emptied of birds, and the old fox
picks his path past the window—
this survivor, self-healed, his brush
bent from an ancient hit-and-run,
flanks grizzled, door-mat rough,
scrubby as thorn bush.
You won’t find him eyeing you
from a calendar of winsome nature.
Tomorrow’s soon enough for his stink,
delicately placed for the sun’s release.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, D.A. Prince would
be pleased to hear them.