The Fox

Forgotten beneath the limbs of trees, Late light pours soft on dilapidated leaves, As I lean close against the ancient bark, Hearing the whisper in the dark.

Yet there is motion beneath the wood, The sprightly stir of a surly rod, As if his trickster heart had been caught, Sleeping, or pacing, or lost in thought.

This shadow of fur with the sly, soft gaze, Turns, where the wild fern stately sways, And darts forth from the bough’s retreat, Provoking silence in echo’s seat.

• John Crowe Ransom