Fox Red

Fox lies red and dead
on the road,
His wintery coat rusted
with blood.
His furry blonde testes
neatly displayed

Beneath his thick brush

Between hind legs

Elegantly crossed

In a final sleepy pirouette

Horizontal

Toes pointed down.

His teeth gleam in the early sun
His days of fun have run their course
No more phishing presence
On the  verandah of the sheep breeder
Whose lambs he breakfasted

So vigorously on

In the early dawn hours.

Her door mat shall remain

Where it is put

After her sturdy broom

Has swept the verandah clean.

A satisfied smirk lingers

On those deft lips

And cold incisors,

As if he was unaware

Even at that last moment

When the bullet’s impact

Smashed his knowing from this world

To the next as the hunter became prey.

Would the lambs have been so unaware

Of his intent in their final moments?

© Ilana Leeds