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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?

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