Saturday you watched the fox
beyond the fence,
whistled when your father
raised his rifle
crashing splinters in the air.
You walked on soft feet
to unriddle her,
padded prints and
calls like baby cries,
feathers rusted blood.
“They’ll call you predator,”
you whispered
when you found her hidey hole.
You told her of their lips
all wet with hunting words.
But Sunday, there she was
in the yard,
bright tail waving,
come-and-get-me flag.
“She’s rabid,” said your father.
You knew better.
She had a wicked flavor
on her tongue, a taste that aches.
She tried, but she just couldn’t stay away
from those damn hens.
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