Olathe - R. Scott Robison

A fox ran upon the snow
in a clearing ringed by oaks:
black skeletons in winter.
The crusts and drifts blended fast
to a dove who perched unseen
high against the iron sky.
In the white glade the fox searched
for summer’s path, there somewhere
below December’s blanket.

Pawprints crossed the noiseless field.
Pink tongue lolled; eyes fixed ahead
to an uncarpentered wood.
Through the trees now the fox ran,
until he showed at the edge
of the next empty white tract.
Here skeletons gave way to
hemlocks, and in a thin nest
roosted the dove’s faithful mate.

Alarmed by the fox, the dove
fluttered; the nest’s dead needles
began to spread. Through the cracks,
two white eggs fell into snow––
deep snow, hiding, absorbing.
Keen vulpine interest waned
as the scent of the live prize
faded in the indistinct
combination of all light.

R. Scott Robison, 30 December 2008