The fox cub cavorts behind the house.
His brush floating above his thin frame
swirls through the air as he turns and turns.
The vixen must be crouching in the woods—
she will not come out so near the house
though we often glimpse her
trotting in the shadowed dusk.
But she will appear at my neighbor’s door
with her cub, trusting to his quiet call of
“heah, heah” and the food she will find.
The deer, the raccoon and her young,
the birds, the squirrels—no shooing away
of some to favor others—all are welcome
at this table.
And there is no thought of possible dangers—
Lyme disease, rabies—this Francis holds out
welcome to all to his feast
on a rocky slope leading down to the quiet cove
where a lobster boat rocks in the welcoming arms of the sea.