Today as I feed the chooks, I see how spring’s finished flowers clutter the grass with their bones, fleshless and delicate. Just think how the birth of every apple begins with this death and littering. I throw handfuls of dried corn, and remember how the night sprays a sweep of clandestine stars, so bespeckling our darkness that their roaring deaths are unimaginable to our poor and tardy vision. The sky’s a weighty spread today and my gummy head seeks cushioning for its blankness. And yet we all coexist with the subliminal, ignorant as rabbits until, smoked from their holes by the night fox, ideas and fears skitter before our eyes. And so, thinking of foxes, I shut the chook house door remembering to check for eggs.
The Night Fox
Published
Out of the Cave 
love the pairing of the tiny with the cosmic, the metaphor of the night fox, and its morphing in the last stanza with the flesh and blood one
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Thank you!
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Wow. I agree with John. Love the cosmic is tied into the tiny details. These lines really stood out to me:
their roaring deaths are unimaginable
to our poor and tardy vision.
Especially the tardy. We wouldn’t see an exploding star till how many light years later.
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Yes, thanks Bob. That’s what the tardy was meant to express. So glad you like it.
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Love the elegant way you weave the little things in our lives with the universe. Stars die just like us and the chooks. Or is it only a continous metamorphosis of the universe.
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Thank you so much Ulle. I always appreciate your comments.
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Lovely. Peaceful. Calming. Like a cup of camomile.
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Thanks, Misky. Just leave the bag in and keep adding hot water. 👌
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Absolutely.
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