grey fox on picnic table
silver fox on picnic table
Evenings in late spring
When temperatures are newly short sleeved and sweaters are no longer
With daylight taking slightly longer to recede and the last of the Swifts
(or Turns, I don't know how to tell the difference)
Bank and scree above the tree tops until they are all gone for their nests
Then the first firefly of this year blinks his bold availability cross the yard
While a hummingbird sneaks a nightcap before whirring to her branch
And all bird and insect and reptile sounds echo away to near quietude
I take refuge from the mosquitoes on my screened-in back porch
As the occasional bat dips and dives for those it can sense in the shadows
My attention is focus-snagged on a relatively-loud and very distinct sound
Smacky chew-crunching like that of a dog (obviously nearby) and I recall
There were still portions of leftover stale bread crusts on my picnic table
My light reveals a grey silver fox (with a smaller head than I'd have imagined)
Finishing what was too-stale by the previous day's corvids and squirrels
It came back ten nights later to insure I got a better look
Now, I know the difference (and rarity) between a silver and a grey fox
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