the skulk was mostly *****

hens were haunted by either gender

the farmer's wife also feared them

though small and they ran from most two-legged beasts

the farmer shot the foxes for sport--guarding chickens not his concern with a thousand acres in corn

the farmer's son had trapped a red Reynard

it perished in captivity, starving itself

the night of the caged fox's demise, the rooster crowed tirelessly

for good reason, since the leash gobbled a dozen hens under a waning gibbous moon

the creatures prosecuted a moral symmetry it seemed

while the farmer was febrile with the grippe, the son fast asleep, and the wife dared not make a peep

witnessing a crimson carnage she likened to war

in its aftermath, a naked sun rose on waves of white feathers and scarlet trails of blood

perhaps 'tis not good to trap a wild thing, the farmer's wife mused

then she made her way to the coops, fetching enough eggs for breakfast

all the while the skulk watched from the thick brush

watched and waited, without will as we know it

but with a red reckoning ready, should they again be victims

of man's folly and sin