Feeding

Each night, I carry scraps
up the hill to the shed—

rough pine boards buckled and etched—
scrape leftovers onto a smooth

slab of granite barely visible
in the new moon of March,

turn and watch the stars rise
until the chill sends me home.

Last spring, two brown foxes scavenged
the leftovers, skulking up the hill together,

glancing over shoulders, eyes reflecting
green as we watched from the porch.

But scraps are few now, I think
as I wash my plate, place it on the rack,

lean in closer to the window, peer
out into darkness and watch a single

pair of green eyes staring back.

Copyright © 2005 Tony Morris All rights reserved
from Cairn
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission