Forgotten Ground Regained
Fox
Down the draw toward the water where the duck have flocked, the stones stink with riotsof fox sign. The tortured mesquite urge us to the wigeon, pintail, blue-winged teal tuning their whistles.At our rising from the last rockthey leap like rain returning. We shoulder guns, begin to brush them fromthe egg shell dusk: cave dwellers whitewashing the walls of our hides. A teal’s crescent cheek shinesin the game bag’s shadow. Back up the brittle course four lengths of shot, we settle at the scrub oak’s feet.Dimpled walnut strokes the crackedtip of my thumb. The dead rabbit’s record screams into a cedar copsebeyond stones like steps into the night, and that hideous, carnal bark comesto say how far from home we are.
Copyright © Danny Fitzpatrick, 2024
First Published in Forgotten Ground Regained, New Series, Issue 5, Winter, 2025
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