T.

Yesterday we saw a fox, in the middle of the afternoon.
(I've only seen them at night, lurking between
hedgerows.) It looked like a bunch of cinnamon sticks
wired together and animated. Scraggled.
If Pat sees a fox he gets his rifle.

All the cats that live here in the cove
have feline leukemia. Apparently the vaccine
is not readily available. So sad.
They all look sickly, but are affectionate
and desperate for attention.

At the feeder: a blue tit, a blackbird,
a thrush, green finches.

On the mudflat: an oystercatcher.

Gulls between rows of new-mown hay.

I filled my pockets with carrots and walked
up the road to a horse pasture, and all but one
pony ignored me. The stallion, who stood about
fifteen feet away, gazed at me then went to sleep.
The one pony snatched up the carrots with his
tender lips then tried to bite me when they
were gone. I remember: ponies bite.
When I was a child a pony bit me on the bicep --
felt as if he was biting my arm off. The pain
was shocking and startling but the bruise
was amazing and beautiful and left an impression
of that pony's chompers. And my mother
was upset with me! For getting bit!
As if I had requested the bite!
(Mom didn't believe in horses.)



I shall attempt once more to walk out
to Crovinish, Pat's island, where he grew up.
He told me the best time, when the tide
is lowest. Said that if the water is an inch
or two down from the rough road that is
visible during low tide, I'll have an hour
to spend there before having to wade
my way back. His sheep will be my
sole companions.