at the edge of morning

It is the edge of morning and 

it is snowing and 

I am looking

through the glass pane of the bedroom window

into the woods -

the trees are looming black sleepers

at the edge of the yard,

my breath fogs my view for a moment 

as I lean too close -

and as it clears 

I see movement 

and a fox emerges, looks about -

and looks past me in my window,

utterly irrelevant.

I am struck 

by his burnt orange presence

as he carefully crosses the open space into the gardens

aware of scents and sounds

I would be blind to, even if I were standing next to him.

I wonder if he is really animal 

or spirit

in this half light 

crossing between worlds.