Intrusion by Laurence Steven

Walking the gravelled roadbed through the woods in mid November

at that hour between five and six when

afternoon vies with night

and evening is a matter of moments

and shadows, I see,

at the furthest corner of my vision,

a shadow swell, and dip

(I turn my head, while still walking),

weave up through birches,

extricate itself from rock and bank,

come floating

--reddish brown,

come trotting

--black brush hovering behind,

become, on the gravelled way, fox.

"Hah!" I hear surprise, pleasure

in my voice; not loud, but audible:

distinct, as I stand, arrested

by this conjunction.

The snout

--an intent two inches

from the invisible track which bisects my own

about thirty feet away--

comes up, head turns;

he takes me at a glance, leisurely (perhaps a second),

without checking his stride,

then drops the snout to its business again:

rabbit, or mouse, or vixen.

A branch snapping in the frost,

A car horn in the middle distance,

These intrude but do not impinge.

I stand, an intrusion, watching a fox

with even gait

become black brush

floating rust

and shadow.   

---

Laurence Steven taught English and Humanities for 32 years at Laurentian University in Sudbury, Ontario. From 1995 to retirement in 2015 he was owner, publisher, and editor of Scrivener Press. He now divides his time between southern Ontario and southern Arizona. He has published poetry in a variety of magazines and anthologies.