A Suburban Fox

By candle light and ticking clocks
The moon shines down
On the small red fox
As he picks his way
Through a rubbish can
Exhuming morsels left by man
His aim is survival
A day at a time
Nibbling at titbits and bacon rind
Gone is the hunt for his normal prey
As he trips through the night
And sleeps through the day
In disused ruins
On forgotten sites
Safe in the darkness
Away from the light
A new kind of breed
In an alien place
With a will to survive alongside our race.

by Graham Jones

Comments (1)

Nice write, Graham, reminding me of a huge, perfect red fox I saw sitting on a wall in the 'burbs many years ago. They're too beautiful to live as described here (sigh) .