Fox was here first.
In his own time he ate the bright, ripe berries, and scattered
the seeds to own his passing.
Fox grazed, and chased the whitefoot mouse, and munched
a casual cricket on a slow night.
At dusk he strolled the woods road;
in the full dark he barked love songs, and listened.
I am here now,
And my chickens that are as obvious as drive-through burger stands.
They wave neon signs of scent across the summer evening.
Fox covets those chickens.
Where does it say,
“Thou shalt not Covet thy neighbor’s flock?”
Nowhere that Red has read it.
He stalks my porch at night,
and walks the fence beneath the fallow moon.
smell him in their sleep and erupt, mad with barking.
He laughs at them and dances on, leaving
his scat defiant where I find it in the morning
like a gauntlet flung waiting on the warm bricks.