fox

there he was
outside the window
in the early morning
hunkered in a hollow
hunting
a sweat of rusted spice
in the dew lush meadow
caught in dawn’s blush
inquisitive
inquisitor
alpha provider
sensing
an invader
saw me
without turning

ears sidelong sharp
fine tail singed
with red flush
of fine pelt
low slung
silent authority
of masterful instinct
padding lightly
on felted paws
to dip away
into woodland shades
without turning

The reluctant sash window
finally yields and opens
to the singing wood
at the end of the garden.
I want to fill this room
with the chattering trees’
feathery songs,
with melting menthol air
crisp with scented pine,
to invite in
sierra fringe
sun seeking flower faces
and the raw ginger tang of fox

to fill here
to fill now
to fill me
to my toes end
without ever turning