Padded out from a stand of sycamores,
Stopped opposite the newly dug ridges
to listen for the lithe young collie.
Glanced behind, indecisive for a moment,
Loped past the gable where the dark-haired boy
kicks a football,
slipped through a hole in the hedge
onto the road.
the fox, stretched lifeless on the grass,
a cloud of flies at its eyes,
already stinking of resurrection.
Happy Christmas, by the way; see you on the other side.