Runcible Spoon

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What if he was the glory of foxes –

snout pointing to the Pole star,

his belly whitening the winter dusk,

his stillness by the water, lying?

Caught in his stride, his brush

still touching the nettled edge

he passed through in the night,

as if this place had caught him

in a promise of more than all

his senses, held him in a snare

of moonlight, and laid him quiet

on his side, here among shadows

and ice on this, the shortest day.