Poet Mary Oliver, with whom I share a birthday, tells us poets: “To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.”
The fox was young. Blood
smeared across the far lane. She lay
back to the speeding cars.
Thin shoulders hunched toward
her tender ears tipped black and
sitting high on her head. Her death so fresh
the dark russet coat still gleamed
under the road dust. On my way back
I saw her inert vulpine face
and body displayed in resignation
her tail a plume of acquiescence.
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