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.