Cub

A fox cub lies dead in sticky mud,

no marks on her rusty fur, 
and she’s still warm,

I know because I lay a hand on her,
surprised by a paternal feeling,
something like loss lingering 
behind thoughts of hounds 

or hidden boys, 
quick with sharp stones, 
a hand of shot,
the catgut taughtness of a crossbow.

Her teeth like the shallow drip of a candle,
and about as dangerous,
pierce nothing, but the stillness 
of an afternoon made memorable
 
by sudden pathos;
the unfairness of her chance,
and the presence of 

my daughter, pointing 
and trying to say 
dog.