The wily flight of the fiery fox,
skulking through the dewy stalks.
Eyes bright and glimmering
under moonlight shimmering and silken.
The fleetfooted fox,
the beat he pounds.
Seeking,
searching all over the ground.
He sweeps along,
like a ghost in the dark.
His shrill bark
sounds like a knife
cutting the night in half.
Ducks into doorways,
dives down dark alleyways,
through the night-time hours
whilst sleep keeps most at bay.
Slips into hedgerows,
disturbing the undergrowth.
Never stops, never slows.
Always alert, always on his toes.
A golden spirit in the blackness,
a blur of orange fading past us.
His cunning is legendary.
He tricks and plays with his prey.
Then pounces when they
are tired and weary
from the long hours of day.
Orange smear in the distance seen
before blending into the dark leafy green.
He hides,
buries a snack for rainy days
and retires to his pack.
His escapades completed
and into sleep he fades.
Thanks for reading
