Nine-fifteen in the evening, sitting on the porch
he sees a little red fox silently trotting up the

street; a car comes along and the fox ducks
into a yard and trots on his way to his den

in a dune along the shores of the Big Lake.
Earlier, he watched and listened to one pundit

after another try to make sense of the primary,
and he listened to reports of senseless, arbitrary

violence half a world away scaring everyone
every which way. He chuckles thinking of those

rapidly moving little legs and gives thanks
for the trot of the fox making him think of

Fred Astaire dancing the night away.