Through the frosty window, in crisp air

and a silent sea of white

I see the tiptoe of a fox, bright as a burning ember

My breath snatched, I stare—

dark eyes

Then I see the mounds, scattered—

Little lumps of feathers

lie, seeping red into the snow

I am flying out the door, my

bare feet numb on the 

ground

Gone, he has left only pawprints and

a yardful of bodies,

Our hens,

laying still