Tracks in the frost behind the shed
my rabbits quiet in their wired sleep
Four paws stitched the snow in the night
pads clear as ink where the moon leaned close
Something has been coming at dark
light-footed, red as cedar bark
I follow the tracks past the woodpile
my own boots breaking what the paws began
I do not hunt the fox
I hunt what found the hutch and would return
The snow keeps its small accounting
claw, pause, turn toward timber
The Coast Range stands without comment
smoke rising straight from my chimney
At the fence I kneel longer than needed
my hand resting on wire gone cold
I think of how thin winter makes us
me with my small flock, him with his ribs
If I fire it will be for balance
not anger, not sport, but fear of losing
Somewhere in the salal he waits
a body lean with hunger and visible breath