No man’s marauder, and no creature’s bane,
silent, yet still profane,
he trots the forest effortful and cold
through the soft, difficult snow,
controlled by the slow world where he must go.
Branches are broad with snow; each has a fine
and spidery underline.
The snow resumes. Trees fade to sky and ground,
and west, east, north and south
confound the fox’s eye, his ravenous mouth.
Nothing else stirs in all this silent stirring.
No bird, confused and whirring,
beats like a moth through the white hemlock lanes;
even the hare, dismayed,
trains his wild heart, and holds his barricade.
Helpless, the fox goes on. The snow’s descent
requires him innocent:
he comprehends the serpent and the dove.
It is as though Cain had been such another,
loving, or lost — calling: Abel; my brother.