In the tree line a fox trail begins, or it ends, next to a wide expanse of garden. Maple and oak blazed leaves, a pair of bare mimosa twist twigs and a bearing fig buds at-the-ready stands naked where someone held family games.
A family of fox grew through the seasons. One decided to remain, to beat the boundaries, it seems, the same vixen of the piebald coat had bogarted an unguarded sandwich on the Mid-summer.
She pads along the unmasked trail, amongst secluded wood, and hedgerow, she knows the cover-cropped fields — hunting up the enclave acres or perhaps snack-taking the adjoining property
long shadow —
paw prints in free clay,
dove on upper roost.
c. Lemuel 02-11-20