What could be worse 
than its body 
inching out of the dark stuff

Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river? 
Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air—
an armful of white blossoms,

I knelt down
  at the edge of the water,
     and if the white birds standing

The fox
is so quiet—
he moves like a red rain—