Only the eyes of the bird under the bush were not still.

No afternoon wind moved through the greening boughs of may.

The fox stopped, one foot lifted, listening there in the sandy cut.

To the horn coming, and the horses coming fast over the hill,

Of the loud horseman leading his tour sons and his riding lady.

The wind stirred then, the fox put his toot down, the bird's eyes shut,

And death surged over the gulley bank, as floods fill

An empty valley, swirling, and slowed from red to gray,

And rode down only a fox's footprint deep in a faint rut.