The Fox In The Hayfield Poem by Garry Stanton

I bale,
he drives,
piles growing into
hot heaps of ambrosial hay.

August sun, dropping off, says
-get a move on,
it’s a rain-free day,
but a one-day offer!

The wee hours descend
as headlights flame,
elucidating vital work.

Then she comes,
all in brown
and hand-me-downs
and weak thermos- tea
in careworn wicker-
and bread and cress
and egg,

and invisible malignancy within,
bitingtuggingnibblinghacking
at ovaries,
a vixen-violated
henhouse,
in the dead of
winter.