an original poem I wrote on the bus from the Balaton to Budapest

Rest, fox  by Sheldon Valeda

Rest, fox.
A vision of you flashed by, resting finally, somehow still graceful
on unlikely grey ground, your Hungarian home,
your auburn hair still resplendent may fall like the oak leaves behind you.
Oblivious now to myriad parasites.
Halted sting of hunger. Halted quest for habitat.

Forgotten your misunderstood ancestors, stalked for sport.
Forgotten the unnerving cries and roars of crowded cousins
both shrill and deep, mutated,
snouts psychotically stretched to blindness.

On German ground in spring you woke me from nightmare
on moonless late eve you howled not,
but growled, struggling to drag me
on dewy grass into black forest,
my foot clamped softly through sleeping bag.
Unconvinced of consciousness, still connected,
we shared an absurd moment, before I sat up and gasped,
severing our physical bond.
You lept back, but less than a metre, and we stared,
exhilarated, eyes blazing both.

Would that I could drag you into the thin forest this autumn.
Me not growling nor howling, but whimpering.
No, my bus only flashed past, oblivious too.
No eyes blazing, neither.
Just mine staring inside after your message.

Rest, fox.