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Sure, let's jump in the car, go out for a shopping-trip drive
In the country, the fall fast approaching, the foliage exploding with color.
Sure. And what do I find? Then wrote about it (as if I could help myself).
...Then grieved. Again. Over to you, to do the same...
.
...................................................................................................................................
...................................................................................................................................
NB: Consider this a companion piece to Words Of Sorrow On Seeing A Killed Crow
and A Long Prayer For A Found Killed Raccoon
Once again it happens, and this time on my sixty-first *birthday* of all days?
Earlier people could read potent portents into this sorta stuff.
So this is the world that we have created, one that murders pretty foxes,
By accident, and without care or even passing thought to the evil of it.
(Those were the words that came on the drive back home,
And a fitting opening.)
There: It was a flash of unmoving reddish fur, the sleek body at the road’s shoulder,
As still as only death can accomplish, without a doubt.
Seen glancingly as I drove to the store to buy wut-th’-hell it was that I needed.
Then knew, in an equal flash, that I must return,
And attend, and witness, and... and... and...
Do something.
Grieve? Whatever?
Not that the fox would care, now, about what I might do.
Nor, if still alive, would I have ever gotten within a dozen meters of the animal.
Or just as likely, would have been ferociously attacked,
In a desperate terror-stricken attempt to escape.
It’s a fox.
Or was.
Say, why don’t I write another big long poem here?
What a spiffily practical thought.
Just no feathers involved this time.
This time, also no doubt about how the kill happened, the jaw dislocated,
The neck twisted a bit. In the muzzle, the sharp fangs also damaged.
A mortal-strike hard at exactly neck level, the wound showing,
At 80 kph or so, probably in the dark or at dusk.
That would do it to me too, I suppose.
Or is there doubt? Not a deadly blow, perhaps, but hard enough,
To throw the fox aside. Then to collapse, then into short-lived terrible agony.
Then into unconsciousness. Then death.
How the young fox was facing the road, how it lay:
He may have tried to move to safety in the fields,
Surrounding the fatal spot? No, didn’t make it.
Again young like an earlier crow, not full grown but close to.
And this time gender could be confirmed.
An indignity there, to find this out, but then furry death is the subject today.
Etiquette is not high on the agenda.
As before with a crow, the body perfect, unmarked, no rigour.
Seeming as if asleep, as if the chest might still rise with breath.
No, not quite the same this time, not with the eyes uglily pecked out.
Some avian scavengers got here first, but hadn’t yet completed the whole task.
Black-tufted ears. Likewise black-coated paws. Long svelte muzzle.
Rich reddish fur, as said.
Soft white underfur, and the tail also tipped with white.
With a faint striping of black running down the top of the tail.
No again, I’m not taking any photographs. That... wouldn’t be any more right,
Than the last time.
You are aware of how beautiful foxes are.
Even in death.
Why do I waste words repeating what we both already know?
This time my two cats are much warier, approaching slowly, but still curious,
To inspect the ex-predator that lies on my back porch in the afternoon sun,
On the grounds that he’s been dead for more than a few hours, perhaps a day.
The summer’s heat has well started the process of decay,
To liberate the strong rising scent of inevitable degradation.
Likely far stronger for the cats than me.
(Required: Drove home with him in plastic in the trunk, all windows open,
the fan on full power. Did I mention that we’re talking about death here?)
Darn right a predator, who could easily take my small felines in a bloody pounce,
For swift din-dins, vulpine nom-nom, the speed and stealth of all foxes,
Being the most of their lethality.
If still alive. But this one isn’t. I think the cats know this.
One sniffs carefully at the lovely tail, caution in her motion, then at the cute ears.
The other one: Approaches a bit, comes close, but then backs off, retreats,
In demonstration of some pussy-cat leery-wisdom, I guess.
Then both vanish into the bushes to hunt for smaller prey than themselves.
Well, it’s what cats—and foxes—do.
If still alive.
Not.
Foxes I do know well, have seen more’n a few of them during my time in the country.
Add also many images and vids, that we’ve all seen.
To be sure, foxes have their attraction.
Once out bike riding: One just patiently sitting on haunches,
There at roadside watching me approach.
Then calmly turning to walk into the woods, clearly unperturbed.
Or several seen just ignoring me, out hunting,
Trotting past my field of view down on the driveway.
Whose land is this, huh?
Or in the snow in the winter: Perfectly obvious, the many rabbit tracks,
Surely tasty prey to those who own the more delicate fox tracks,
That follow the bunnies.
Burp.
Or even more direct: Found last spring on a trail,
A completely undisturbed skeleton of an even younger fox.
Who likely starved, then to be preserved by the heavy snow,
But not preserved from the hungry insects who stripped it’s bones clean.
This one too must have it’s own ritual of some kind, at some point,
Once I am finished the one that’s currently on my to-do list.
Yes, about that, here I go once more, Great Spirit.
Got another one to commend into your eternal care.
Not-kin of mine, but still kin-enough. If furred, as I am not.
Again the open air ritual, on the large flat stone,
Up at the top of the field beside my home.
As good an altar as I’m gonna find.
Marked at edges with four more stones: North, South, East, West.
First, a moment of drumming to get your attention, then a waft of tobacco smoke,
To cleanse (although should be sweetgrass smoke).
Then on to the five offerings:
The Salt of Life. The Water of Life. The Food of Life (bits of chicken).
The Air of Life (just a wave of hand).
And the Milk of Life. Without which there is no birth that survives. Right?
True, symbolic, all of it, what a fox—or any of us--needs in the afterlife.
But we should have more. Naturally, must leave some tobacco here.
And a snip of fur from the cats and a bit of my hair.
Symbolically, fox, you do not go into the afterlife alone. We’re predators too.
Lastly, some music off of my little tablet, from Buffy St. Marie.
Her song: You Gotta Run.
As foxes certainly do a lot of.
If still alive.
The ritual is done and over, the afternoon sun descending into chill fall evening.
None of the symbolism was for the fox’s benefit, of course.
Should a memento be taken this time?
Yes: Only a tiny snip of white tail fur and a tiny piece of a dewclaw.
In the afterlife, the soul of a fox needs his full claws to hunt,
His intact tail flying bushy behind him.
As for the quantity of tears on this occasion?
Feel free to add yours.
To the many of mine.
---
In the country, the fall fast approaching, the foliage exploding with color.
Sure. And what do I find? Then wrote about it (as if I could help myself).
...Then grieved. Again. Over to you, to do the same...
.
...................................................................................................................................
...................................................................................................................................
>>>>> On Grief for A Killed Fox <<<<<
By Fred Brown, Sept 30/2022 
fwbrown61
Copyright 2022 All rights reserved, all commercial
infringements prosecuted, website display permission
available upon request. Non-personal distro is infringement.
NB: Consider this a companion piece to Words Of Sorrow On Seeing A Killed Crow
and A Long Prayer For A Found Killed Raccoon
Once again it happens, and this time on my sixty-first *birthday* of all days?
Earlier people could read potent portents into this sorta stuff.
So this is the world that we have created, one that murders pretty foxes,
By accident, and without care or even passing thought to the evil of it.
(Those were the words that came on the drive back home,
And a fitting opening.)
There: It was a flash of unmoving reddish fur, the sleek body at the road’s shoulder,
As still as only death can accomplish, without a doubt.
Seen glancingly as I drove to the store to buy wut-th’-hell it was that I needed.
Then knew, in an equal flash, that I must return,
And attend, and witness, and... and... and...
Do something.
Grieve? Whatever?
Not that the fox would care, now, about what I might do.
Nor, if still alive, would I have ever gotten within a dozen meters of the animal.
Or just as likely, would have been ferociously attacked,
In a desperate terror-stricken attempt to escape.
It’s a fox.
Or was.
Say, why don’t I write another big long poem here?
What a spiffily practical thought.
Just no feathers involved this time.
This time, also no doubt about how the kill happened, the jaw dislocated,
The neck twisted a bit. In the muzzle, the sharp fangs also damaged.
A mortal-strike hard at exactly neck level, the wound showing,
At 80 kph or so, probably in the dark or at dusk.
That would do it to me too, I suppose.
Or is there doubt? Not a deadly blow, perhaps, but hard enough,
To throw the fox aside. Then to collapse, then into short-lived terrible agony.
Then into unconsciousness. Then death.
How the young fox was facing the road, how it lay:
He may have tried to move to safety in the fields,
Surrounding the fatal spot? No, didn’t make it.
Again young like an earlier crow, not full grown but close to.
And this time gender could be confirmed.
An indignity there, to find this out, but then furry death is the subject today.
Etiquette is not high on the agenda.
As before with a crow, the body perfect, unmarked, no rigour.
Seeming as if asleep, as if the chest might still rise with breath.
No, not quite the same this time, not with the eyes uglily pecked out.
Some avian scavengers got here first, but hadn’t yet completed the whole task.
Black-tufted ears. Likewise black-coated paws. Long svelte muzzle.
Rich reddish fur, as said.
Soft white underfur, and the tail also tipped with white.
With a faint striping of black running down the top of the tail.
No again, I’m not taking any photographs. That... wouldn’t be any more right,
Than the last time.
You are aware of how beautiful foxes are.
Even in death.
Why do I waste words repeating what we both already know?
This time my two cats are much warier, approaching slowly, but still curious,
To inspect the ex-predator that lies on my back porch in the afternoon sun,
On the grounds that he’s been dead for more than a few hours, perhaps a day.
The summer’s heat has well started the process of decay,
To liberate the strong rising scent of inevitable degradation.
Likely far stronger for the cats than me.
(Required: Drove home with him in plastic in the trunk, all windows open,
the fan on full power. Did I mention that we’re talking about death here?)
Darn right a predator, who could easily take my small felines in a bloody pounce,
For swift din-dins, vulpine nom-nom, the speed and stealth of all foxes,
Being the most of their lethality.
If still alive. But this one isn’t. I think the cats know this.
One sniffs carefully at the lovely tail, caution in her motion, then at the cute ears.
The other one: Approaches a bit, comes close, but then backs off, retreats,
In demonstration of some pussy-cat leery-wisdom, I guess.
Then both vanish into the bushes to hunt for smaller prey than themselves.
Well, it’s what cats—and foxes—do.
If still alive.
Not.
Foxes I do know well, have seen more’n a few of them during my time in the country.
Add also many images and vids, that we’ve all seen.
To be sure, foxes have their attraction.
Once out bike riding: One just patiently sitting on haunches,
There at roadside watching me approach.
Then calmly turning to walk into the woods, clearly unperturbed.
Or several seen just ignoring me, out hunting,
Trotting past my field of view down on the driveway.
Whose land is this, huh?
Or in the snow in the winter: Perfectly obvious, the many rabbit tracks,
Surely tasty prey to those who own the more delicate fox tracks,
That follow the bunnies.
Burp.
Or even more direct: Found last spring on a trail,
A completely undisturbed skeleton of an even younger fox.
Who likely starved, then to be preserved by the heavy snow,
But not preserved from the hungry insects who stripped it’s bones clean.
This one too must have it’s own ritual of some kind, at some point,
Once I am finished the one that’s currently on my to-do list.
Yes, about that, here I go once more, Great Spirit.
Got another one to commend into your eternal care.
Not-kin of mine, but still kin-enough. If furred, as I am not.
Again the open air ritual, on the large flat stone,
Up at the top of the field beside my home.
As good an altar as I’m gonna find.
Marked at edges with four more stones: North, South, East, West.
First, a moment of drumming to get your attention, then a waft of tobacco smoke,
To cleanse (although should be sweetgrass smoke).
Then on to the five offerings:
The Salt of Life. The Water of Life. The Food of Life (bits of chicken).
The Air of Life (just a wave of hand).
And the Milk of Life. Without which there is no birth that survives. Right?
True, symbolic, all of it, what a fox—or any of us--needs in the afterlife.
But we should have more. Naturally, must leave some tobacco here.
And a snip of fur from the cats and a bit of my hair.
Symbolically, fox, you do not go into the afterlife alone. We’re predators too.
Lastly, some music off of my little tablet, from Buffy St. Marie.
Her song: You Gotta Run.
As foxes certainly do a lot of.
If still alive.
The ritual is done and over, the afternoon sun descending into chill fall evening.
None of the symbolism was for the fox’s benefit, of course.
Should a memento be taken this time?
Yes: Only a tiny snip of white tail fur and a tiny piece of a dewclaw.
In the afterlife, the soul of a fox needs his full claws to hunt,
His intact tail flying bushy behind him.
As for the quantity of tears on this occasion?
Feel free to add yours.
To the many of mine.
---
Category Poetry / All
Species Vulpine (Other)
Gender Male
Size 120 x 120px
File Size 22.3 kB
TY tha lovely. Sorta had a template to work from? Still: 'Nother one to go into the Proud-About-It file.
Although the thought does occur. I really ought to go looking for poetic inspiration that doesn't necessarily involve the violent death of some animal or other.
I mean, at the rate everyone's going extinct, how much grief--and words about it--do I have in me? :- /
fwbrown61
Although the thought does occur. I really ought to go looking for poetic inspiration that doesn't necessarily involve the violent death of some animal or other.
I mean, at the rate everyone's going extinct, how much grief--and words about it--do I have in me? :- /
fwbrown61
Yah, I did about the same. Apart from being a sorta 'clone,' 'nother rough one to do.
May be a few more like this to write? Crow and Fox aren't the only dead critters I've met this summer. Unfortunately. :- /
fwbrown61
May be a few more like this to write? Crow and Fox aren't the only dead critters I've met this summer. Unfortunately. :- /
fwbrown61
Hmmm, honor. Dat sparks thoughts, dat word does. Out of two [senseless] furry deaths I pulled two strong poems. And can detect a few more forming up.
Thus giving the [emotional] illusion that there is some sense here. But isn't really. Fox and Crow don't benefit from these words, of course.
They've been nommed by others now, in the usual way of things (and eventually us too). But in the writing here, I have benefitted? At least in the assuaging of my sense of guilt?
Hold it a minute, where's the honor in this lot? I know self-interest--why we all write--when it leers back at me from the mirror.
OR: Let's take this as an attempt to crowbar-extract *something* meaningful--in poetic from--from what was nothing completely more than a pure waste of [furry] life. In which we are ALL guilty. Right? J'accuse.
I'm not Wordsworth, and I'm sure as fudge not romantically starin' at a buncha stupid daffodils here. Knew from word one: I'm damnwell gonna poke the reader inna eye with a sharp stick about alla this. Mission very accomplished.
Ergo Fox and Crow didn't die in vain? Perhaps the honor is to be found in that, in just how they won't be forgotten.
Depending on how readers take theses poems, best I can hope for? Well, what else can any writer hope for?
As usual, and just can't help myself, short reply from you provokes long reply from me.
If there's any one reason why I'll be plunked down into Hell, this will be it.
fwbrown61
PS: To be forever pecked by the Hell-Crows, and gnawed on by the Hell-Foxes? Lo, the irony. :- )
Thus giving the [emotional] illusion that there is some sense here. But isn't really. Fox and Crow don't benefit from these words, of course.
They've been nommed by others now, in the usual way of things (and eventually us too). But in the writing here, I have benefitted? At least in the assuaging of my sense of guilt?
Hold it a minute, where's the honor in this lot? I know self-interest--why we all write--when it leers back at me from the mirror.
OR: Let's take this as an attempt to crowbar-extract *something* meaningful--in poetic from--from what was nothing completely more than a pure waste of [furry] life. In which we are ALL guilty. Right? J'accuse.
I'm not Wordsworth, and I'm sure as fudge not romantically starin' at a buncha stupid daffodils here. Knew from word one: I'm damnwell gonna poke the reader inna eye with a sharp stick about alla this. Mission very accomplished.
Ergo Fox and Crow didn't die in vain? Perhaps the honor is to be found in that, in just how they won't be forgotten.
Depending on how readers take theses poems, best I can hope for? Well, what else can any writer hope for?
As usual, and just can't help myself, short reply from you provokes long reply from me.
If there's any one reason why I'll be plunked down into Hell, this will be it.
fwbrown61PS: To be forever pecked by the Hell-Crows, and gnawed on by the Hell-Foxes? Lo, the irony. :- )
I have a stretch of highway that issues with animals constantly getting hit on the road, but when they were changing it from a simple two-lane road to a four-lane They installed these 6' high wire fences along both sides of the highway, and then made a tunnel for them to pass safely underneath the highway. And before they had the tunnel covered, animals were already using it.
Although one night as my family was coming home I had to go back up and remove from the middle of the road the neighbor's cat to the side far from the road to keep vultures from landing in the middle of the road. I felt the same way that you did, but mine was more of anger and aggression toward the people that hit the cat.
Although one night as my family was coming home I had to go back up and remove from the middle of the road the neighbor's cat to the side far from the road to keep vultures from landing in the middle of the road. I felt the same way that you did, but mine was more of anger and aggression toward the people that hit the cat.
'Lo H:
I'm not writing about anything that everybody hasn't already seen before. But let's just say, 's just not something that anybody considers for more'n a few seconds.
Oh, a dead fox in the road. Or a cat. Then zoom, we're on to our other more important human business. Now *that* attitude is something I can get angry about. Definitely also a subcurrent to both poems, BTW.
Good to hear, the $$$ spent on the tunnel thing. Less good about the neighbour's cat. Condolences are given, as I look at my two on the couch beside me, who are never gonna end up like that.
To close, I'll quote myself from sonnet #31, The Predator's Dilemma:
Should we kill all that can be killed we’re lost.
Only when needful or pay deadly cost
Think I hit dat one square on the nail, hmmm?
fwbrown61
I'm not writing about anything that everybody hasn't already seen before. But let's just say, 's just not something that anybody considers for more'n a few seconds.
Oh, a dead fox in the road. Or a cat. Then zoom, we're on to our other more important human business. Now *that* attitude is something I can get angry about. Definitely also a subcurrent to both poems, BTW.
Good to hear, the $$$ spent on the tunnel thing. Less good about the neighbour's cat. Condolences are given, as I look at my two on the couch beside me, who are never gonna end up like that.
To close, I'll quote myself from sonnet #31, The Predator's Dilemma:
Should we kill all that can be killed we’re lost.
Only when needful or pay deadly cost
Think I hit dat one square on the nail, hmmm?
fwbrown61
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