I am watching,
alive the foxes watching me after the grass is cut,
barking seldom but always watching,
red coal eyes,
gold afire on the stubble on the hillock,
bright fur hostile,
prowling now for the waning hour shadows creeping,
slipping inside wire pens that coop our hens.
I watch the foxes watching me
along the edge of night coming
until the hour is darkness waiting for whatever will happen
when I go inside my farmhouse
and sleep away the night.