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The Fox
In the year 1954 of a bygone era
Fall came and he took a leave
(certain he could not sit through
another graduate class -- not
yet), wrote a bit, taught one class --
he liked to teach, they needed
the money he put with what
she earned at her offi
ce job.
He'd fi sh the small stream that ran
below the cliff s at the edge
of town. They ate what he caught;
ate the blackberries, soft-ripe
large ones, that grew at streamside.
They made some blackberry wine,
once, from a small bucketful.
And sometimes he went hunting.
He found a good single-shot
.22 in a cluttered
second-hand store outside town.
It was old but well cared-for --
smelt of gun-oil, and the bore
was bright, clear of corrosion.
Through friends who rented one fl oor
of a farmhouse out from town
a mile or so, he'd obtained
permission from the owner
to hunt on his land -- squirrels,
the man said, had been raiding
the cornfi eld he'd not yet picked.