Fox’s world is a circle that spirals from dawn
through the sleeping heat of the day into dusk.
And when the moon lifts up light from the pond
Fox journeys with her shadow through the night.
She follows a compass track—
she knows its smells, its rabbit logs, its prairie dogs,
knows where the moonlight scratches at a ravine’s hidden quarry.
There is an arc to her life, an ancient melody.
In a distant harbor fir trees are stacked on wharves
then sheared into lumber for houses on rounded hills
in subdivisions whose roads were once winding rivers.
In Fox’s world butterfly wings are lazy triangles
Opening and closing on the lips of flowers—
Fox’s ears, trout’s tail, bird’s beak
And cougar’s tooth evolved the old way
not like the mark of merchants’ boots trampling on the vintage
generals wielding their sword tips
henchmen slinging the bite of their saw blades against the grain.