raising five kits in the wooded
corner of our five acre parcel
late April—I stare out the window
over the sink, the citrus soap promising
something pure as we shelter in place.
A rolling fog smokes the green
grass. The vixen glides her grizzled gray
between orchard and rock wall border.  
I worry over my daughter as she works her
graveyard shifts with patients testing 
positive. She carries her early conception 
deep under scrubs and layers of protection.

The fox strides with some limp mammal
snug between her teeth—tail tipped black
She will feed first, then suckle her kits.
I am dumbstruck by her wild grace—
starving for the necessary hunger I felt as I
learned to latch my first, offering milk for each 
perceived need, craving burnt toast spread 
with sour jam in the witching hours 
when I paced the house, cajoling her to sleep.  

The fox and her kits flaunt
their thriving only to me — I conceal their
den even to my husband, leave offerings of 
cracked eggs and apple peels on the worn 
grass path. I study the rodent bones outside her 
tunneled dirt door—skulls and mandibles marked 
with her teeth. I hope for her whelping blessing 
to reach my daughter as she works.