Fox Chase

Saturday, January 26, 2008


Last evening, escaping the desk, I went out for a walk. The stars were just making ready for the night, the moon was dusting itself off, and it was just me on the streets I never grow tired of.

Down on the low part of the hill, I was stopped by something—a thought, something, I'm not sure—and while I stood perfectly still contemplating whatever it was, a fox appeared from out of nearly nowhere and came toward me like a cat might, or a dog whose name you know. Nose in the air, big tail swinging, its red coat dulled by the dusk light, it moved with seeming purpose, took a good long look, then mosied on.

Those of you who have read UNDERCOVER know how this creature compels me. How it is there for me, beneath the writing surface, a touch of the mysterious, a sign. I chase the fox in my mind like I chase the moon, but last night there was no need to run. The fox was right there, unhurried and within daring, inscrutable reach.

2 comments:

grete said...

Beth - Again I am deeply moved by your choice of words - “The stars were just making ready for the night, the moon was dusting itself off,...” You are the true poet. Not just through the shaping, the organization of letters, sentences, paragraphs - but through the slant of the angle, the x-ray quality of your eyes.

As for your description of the fox, I was reminded of a favorite poem by Ted Hughes:


THE THOUGHT-FOX

I imagine this midnight moment’s forest:
Something else is alive
Beside the clock’s loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.

Through the window I see no star:
Something more near
Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness:

Cold, delicately as the dark snow,
A fox’s nose touches twig, leaf;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now

Sets neat prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come

Across clearings, an eye,
A widening deepening greenness,
Brilliantly, concentratedly,
Coming about its own business

Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox
It enters the dark hole of the head.
The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.

Beth Kephart said...

Grete

Such a glorious, glorious poem

(and such goodness in setting it all down).

Thank you, always,

Beth

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