Carol Krauss

The Song of the Red Fox

We moved to Virginia in late summer. Each season in this old Cape Cod home was a mystery to unfold. I swiftly learned the pattern of the Cardinal’s path, to recognize the Elderberry, Hawthorn, and Bee Balm, and experienced the zip and sting of a Commonwealth mosquito. As autumn approached, so did the brisk breezes from the Elizabeth River Estuary. I opened the windows, aired out the blinds, and swept the river sand from the wide slat floors. A volunteer pumpkin vine unfurled candy of burnt oranges and deep ambers. We carved and candled them. Wearing scarves and mittens, I saw green go to brown. Leaves, grass, and buds curl up like kittens, and freefall to carpet the fraying yard. The first substantial snow came in February. It was not light nor kind, but a boisterous blizzard with bountiful snow and an angry river wind. At that time I learned the song and the search for survival of the red fox.

oval prints
surround the oak
dog bowl empty