Peter L. McNamara
All summer, and now into fall,
A fox has run the fairways —
Vigilant, ears erect — slowing
At times as if to watch a pitch
Or loping on, riveted to some task.
Eight a.m. by the clock he crests
The out-of-bounds beneath my deck —
Rust-red flash! — to stalk a mole or mouse.
Now maples’ colors steal a march,
Stalk fox-like across the valley —
Gold, oranges, umbers, deepest reds —
Parceled lights soon snatched down
A seethe of leaves against the shins.
As though to brazen out his place,
The fox vaunts resolute before
The brightening riot of the hills.