Foxes – Cynthia French


The view bereft of colour. Red coat no camouflage, he jogs brazen onto the winter lake.
(Is this the vandal who gnawed our cord of Christmas lights?) A raucous bark. He turns,
halts, resumes his trek, another call – staccato, urgent. Black ear tips swivel, he stops,
trots back.
From lakeside scruff creeps a slimmer, paler version of himself – head low, white tail-tip
dragging. Her steps are ginger – black stockings singed to soot on hot-coal ice. He
canters toward her. Nose meets nose. He turns again and now she follows. They flow
forward – two flames ignite the blank unknown.

Crescent moon
cradled in cloud
new life within.

Cynthia French is a Newfoundlander who lives in rural Nova Scotia. She has been writing poems since 2006 and has publications in CV2, Riddle Fence, The New Quarterly, and the anthologies The Wild Weathers and Untying the Apron: Daughters Remember Mothers of the 1950s.

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