Padded out from a stand
of sycamores,
confident, purposeful.
Stopped opposite the
newly dug ridges
to listen for the lithe
young collie.
Glanced behind,
indecisive for a moment,
ambled on.
Loped past the gable
where the dark-haired boy
kicks a football,
slipped through a hole
in the hedge
onto the road.
ii.
Morning:
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.
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