The grey fox, so called
actually the color of wet sand
here on the Cape, pads
daintily past the herb garden.

See, I murmur to her or him,
you still exist. I argued
with a park biologist
you hadn't died out here.

I've seen you eating wild
grapes near the dunes.
I watched your kits run
up pitch pines for safety.

Even with the coywolves
hunting you and the red
fox claiming your territory
you are at home where

you belong, stopping to
check out birdseed we
scattered on needles, left-
over cashews you gobble.

You move like the wind
through dead grasses snow
has not yet flattened and
vanish brush of tail last.