Shot Fox

He lay in April

like a shaft of autumn

reddening the leaves,

his tail a brush-fire or

a meteor burning

the white-starred wood.

Choked he had fallen

in mid-thrust of air,

taking the brittle asteroids across his shoulders

– space-hot, a leaden shower –

cutting him down.

Stark as a painted board

the checked limbs wrote

his leaping epitaph,

where he, all power, had made

his last free race –

stopped by the gun.

Now stretched, an arc of fur,

death drinks his lungs,

and in his eyes,

arrowed towards his den,

a blunted light…

The child first found him –

dropping her hot-held flowers

for better things;

fell on one knee and stroked

his bitter teeth,

glad of her luck.