The Fox

Out on the uncombed lawn
a burnt smudge snuffles through
the undergrowth or lies
proprietorial in the slanting sun.

He's made a home
in my garden, bronzed fur
and white belly splayed
and fearless until he catches

a glimpse of my reflection
or senses a shift in the air,
something that realigns
his atmosphere.

He stirs and stares
directly at me, a challenge -
or nothing quite so interested?
Mere acknowledgement of something

other, some shift along the red fuse
of his hot flank,
a momentary disturbance
in his furry universe.

We both know - his look says -
that this is only temporary,
as he moves off slowly,
his brush a flickering flame.