Memoirs of F. Loxy

It might have been Grandfather
dug this hole; its musty floor
now littered with chewed bones

and pellets of scatter-guns
gnawed from his heavy hide —
he was a night marauder:
fat sheep dogs woofed at him,
and chickens choked with cackling
when he slid in.

Father was long, sly, red, and evident;
but came to a day, when dry leaves
clattered along the ground,
Hew up and fell;

we woke up cold, our tails
curled over noses; extricated
out of the shivering heap,
we shook ourselves warm.

We knew he’d gone, but hoped
for blood that night, to try our needle teeth;
but mother came alone
and we gnawed old,
unyielding bones, imaginary meat.

Twelve hounds, a spotted gang
caught him examining
a rabbit hole. They slobbered, grinned;
he whirled away, a pointed streak;
redoubled, danced
from tree to tree, down a yellow slope

But stubble pierced his paws
and a stone wall, the drooling ring
and thump of hoofs decided him.

My brothers now encircle
necks of the withered rich;
each day, I find it harder to be sly;
prefer to sit,
long intervals, alone.

Food comes to me: a flock
of flapping birds,
gabbling inanities: “the sky
is falling!”

In the silence that ensued
I pointed nose to air; observed
effect of wind on leaves:
they turn
underside up; a flick
of green to white, impending rain.

Beyond,
no crack appears as yet
(but then my view is incomplete).