In Midwinter nights
I hear the Foxes
barking around their den.
It’s the mating season,
and Foxy passions
pour long shuddering
plaintiff purrs,
trebling snarls,
and arrested contralto yelps
through the saplings
and around the boughs
of the Sessile Oaks;
echoing in the hollowed
fallen Elm.
Vixen orgasmic squeals
and dog Fox baying rasps,
slice through the silence
of the midnight wood,
in a shameless show
of contemptuous,
copulative compulsion.
Their delirium of desire
drags the fecundate Foxes
from the frail reality
of sneaky, slinkiness
and shadowy shiftiness;
briefly into the winter realm
of braying brazen boldness.
As the invading frost
transforms the trees
into shining, crystalline,
towering talons of the Earth.
Honed to tear
at the icy grip
of chilling air.
This is the Springtime of Foxes.
A dark December night
is their bright May morn’.
This is their high time.
Their Golden Days
are silvery frozen nights,
when their nocturnal noisiness
screams, a sexual celebration
of survival.
I wrote a darker version of this. This is lighter. We need lightening up sometimes.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J6NuhlibHsM
