The Fox

One hundred yards from the top of the mountain, when the peal
Of the churches on the slopes were inviting us towards them,
And the unspent sun of glorious July
Inviting us towards the mountain – right there,
On an unknowing foot and quiet trot
His rare beauty wandered in front of us
We, without movement and without a breath
Were paralysed a moment, like a trinity of stones
We stood, when in the middle of an uncaring step
He too stood frozen in space, above
His one tentative foot the two steady flames
Of his eyes upon us. Then, without hurrying or panic
His red fur slid over the ridge;
It happened, it ended, like a shooting star.