Poetry

Young Foxes

Just before spring, when the wattle is out, rain has a dreadful chill, overflowing all the ground tanks. You miss them if you drive too fast: orange fur smudges the tarmac on roads near the edge of towns. Wombats and roos die all year round, foxes are a seasonal kill. None of them managed to get smart, no time to learn the basic rules. No springtime. No memorials like the wooden crosses you see tied to the base of tree trunks; such waste, it breaks your heart. Young fools.

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