Blue Fox
He slopes across the backyard,
a dawn moon painting his form blue.
The night itself is icy blue,
blue shadows streak the snow.
A bushy tail
flicks aside patches of darkness.
He sniffs frozen spoor,
explores with electric whiskers.
His face turns toward my window;
though I am in a darkened room
the icicles that hang from the casement
are aquamarine.
I am sure he can see me.
A quick curious stare,
then he is over a low fence
whisking snow.
The windowpane grows brighter.
He returns through a hedgerow,
now he is dusky-red,
yet his eyes still glow
with a blue Luna sheen.
Maybe he wants to take another look at me.
Maybe he knows I have prepared
ham and eggs for breakfast;
ham and eggs
arranged on blue china plates.
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