Fox Hunting

Fox Hunting She turns tail to snake through the dust, parting orderly heads of corn, breathing heat and eating dark On her way to escape—she hopes— from the fox chasing her (a rabbit). She knows this place and can’t be lost in place; once she lost a little cottontail in the dust To a hungry raptor who liked rabbits to munch on like popcorn kernels; one hopes they didn’t feel much before the dark- ness hit. She doesn’t like dark skies or dark nights, it’s easy to lose your wits even when you hope you know where you are in the clouds of dust smelling of dry leaves and foxtails in the cornrows But how much do I know? She is only a rabbit. There’s nothing like a rabbit’s foot to hold for luck in the dark as you sneak into the farmer’s corn with your beau and get lost with each other in the damp dust, as you talk about wanting to get out of this little town, one day, you hope. And you and the rabbit have the same hope For a cozy den and a little family of leverets, except you must avoid the sharp teeth and biting dust In the dreary enclosing stifling dark that closes around you and keeps you hemmed in, lost in the ever-present fields of corn that surround you, in this state full of nothing but corn around the highways that all look the same. You hope to get out but everything is gray and you’re losing your steam, like the rabbit being overtaken in the dark, overturned, toppled, attacked in the dusty field of corn. The fox loves a mouthful of rabbit to end his day. He has a family to feed too, after all. He hopes they won’t mind the dark layer of dust that coats the rabbit’s fur. When death begets life, is life still lost?