They sit, undisturbed,
until brought from their secret place.
They are beckoned at times,
at others, of their own accord:
Dusty memories, lovingly unwrapped
to reveal anew God’s grace.
standing straight, motionless.
With effortless grace he launched upward.
He soared, unfettered, until,
at the apex of his graceful leap, with waving swells of grass beneath,
white tipped flag of gentle cognac flowing behind,
his body bent and jackknifed downward.
With forelegs extended
the red fox dropped on the unsuspecting field mouse.
That time of day in late October,
before the North Wind rattles the bones;
when the ginger sun has finally slipped from sight,
and the cotton sky is on fire.
Those last moments before the blanket of night gently settles upon the deep woods,
they awaken for their fifteen minutes of daily fame:
Insects emerge, anxious for the darkness of night,
Chickadees flit to gather the feast,
the fox squirrel prowls the floor
while the feisty red complains of others in his space.
This is the time when everything is alive:
when the veil falls and night descends, it is the time of the fox, deer, and owl;
creatures of the night.
This is the time when the whitetail deer rises from his bed on hillside or swamp
to begin his daily search for food.
Posted on Mon, February 25, 2013
by Dale Swanson filed under