Delicate Fox

There is a simple kind of joy
In driving late at night
When all the roads are quiet
And the peace is rarely broken
And the darkness offers cover
For the wandering and prowling
Of the slight and delicate fox.

I see them sometimes
Gently pawing at the grass banks
Along the otherwise deserted tar
Or hunching low and slender
And rushing from the avenue
To hide in shadows around the estate,

But it pains me all too often
When I find in harsh daylight
The broken, dust-stained pieces
Of their once bright, fiery coats
Battered and abandoned on the roadside.

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