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.