Crumbs

There is a time early in the morning

when the East turns faint

and color still slumbers

gray lay upon gray

edges of things are unformed.

The tentative songs of birds

coax warmth out of the thin light.

I think of these birds

trying to figure out which call

   belongs to which bird

as if a name would make them more beautiful.

I love these creatures

  but alter their rhythms

feeding them crumbs from supermarkets.

out there on my deck rail

   lay bread broken in an offering

a feeble attempt that they might befriend me.

It is then that I see the fox

   a gray fox

a canine that moves like a cat

she stands there (did I say she?)

more cautious than any bird

   a quick nibble

       a sniff for danger

           nibble again

Oh that these crumbs would go on forever

   but the light brightens

   color creeps in

   brushes against her flank

her edges become distinct

   and she disappears.