February, 1178 A.D.

I keep going to the window to check: the old vixen remains in her place beneath the cedar
but now the sun arrives to slowly slide open a panel of light. The vixen sleeps, or seems to sleep,

curled in the pocket she’s found beneath dark branches. She blends into dead leaves and snow.
The brightening sky is the color of the fox, as if it is her soul made visible, as if

her body is heaven’s heart. The garden wall is high. How did she get in, and how will she
go home? Birds fly through the auburn sky, white as sparks. As a child I was instructed

to believe my soul was shelved within until released by death. But my spirit feels too big, she
overflows the dark cupboard of my being. In her temporary den beneath the evergreen, the dawnred

vixen yawns, her tongue a silent, rose-pink unfurling. Maybe my soul isn’t part of me.
Maybe it has always been an indrawn breath, fragrant with the world, meant to be returned

as song?

Rose Strode is a poet and essayist whose recent work appears (or is forthcoming) in Dillydoun, New Ohio Review, The Florida Review, Dewdrop, “Beautiful Things” at River Teeth, and Kestrel. She is a master gardener and a freelance editor. When not writing or helping others with their writing, Rose rehabilitates overgrown gardens and tracks foxes. Her favorite tools are her eraser, her binoculars, and her pruning shears.