overnight, as the frost made blades
of the grass, it had dragged
itself onto the lawn,
and now lay with one back leg drawn up:
out in the open, which every fox avoids.
i thought at first, looking
from an upstairs window, it was a cat.
i felt my muscles harden, the indrawn breath,
but its plume of tail was unmistakeable.
i went down, feeling reluctance
and awe. this visitor, soft-furred,
outstretched and fleet even in death,
lay on its side: still running.
how had it died? no bite,
no shocking gape in the flank.
it looked as if it had been struck down
in flight. gassed?
i stood a pace away, my steps
hollowed in frost.
the pelt was cream and sorrel. black
limbs, delicate. i'd never seen a fox so close -
but nor was a fox there now;
even in the half-open eye:
no fox looking out.
trespassing, i photographed
its mute departure;
the huge silence of it filling the garden.
it deserved sanctuary,
but i delayed.
the fox
had come to me to bear witness;
i could not simply bury it
alongside its death.
