The Fox Hunt

An egg thief will always shake a pack of crows,

wake them from a blue horizon of sleep,

to assemble their tar eyes; to set them upon him

as a reminder that each spike of frost might be the dagger

to ward him off as this snow slips and slows 

even the most careful footed.

Then every step forward can feel as if it sinks us

further into the unvaried emptiness of a moon,

into a marbled coldness where all memory

of kindness seems lost or hidden,

and the bleed from scarlet berries, brazen

and flushed across this ivory cover warn

hunters and hunted alike that a predator 

might become prey or prey, a predator,

to run if they cannot hope to fight,

when each hour of light dissolves 

in its own shade of darkening.

When to watch and wait instead - to stop -

is only to witness an end, over and over again,

and here, we observe the canid,

the coal wing,

the white depths,

the bright waves that usher in

the surge of surf

to roar and then hush. 
 

Image from wikimedia commons. 
https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Fox_Hunt_1893_Winslow_Homer.jpg