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#coastrange
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
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Feb 13
Feb 13, 2026 at 7:22 PM UTC
doc_mabuse
The Fox
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
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