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.