Watching Foxes [poetry]

I am watching,
alive the foxes watching me
after the grass is cut.
Seldom barking
but always watching,
watching me.
Faces sharp,
red coal eyes,
gold afire on the stubble on the hillock,
bright fur hostile,
prowling now for the waning hour shadows creeping,
slipping inside wire pens that coop our hens.

I am watching,
alert the foxes watching me
along the edge of night.