At night behind a flimsy plastic window shade
we watched as a stump slathered with bacon grease
lured foxes in. From the truck, we swept fields
with spotlights looking for deer. I learned to see
their green eyes in the false light.
I lived for my father then. I strained all day to spot
the lone elk he so badly wanted to see.
In summer, hummingbirds whirred at the red feeder
until the bear pawed it down while we were gone.
In the yard, we shot BB guns at cans,
my cousins silent because, without practice,
I could hit at every distance and right in the middle.
Our shower was a garden hose rigged to hot
and a watering can that tipped over the back steps
where, one night in winter, I stood in the steam and heat
and it began to snow. The driving flakes blew past,
sometimes caught in the fog of the shower, and somehow
I was not cold, even as the porch steps
were freezing, even in my nakedness.
I saw myself, then, the way a fox might see itself.
I turned my body toward the white fields
where I followed tracks until they were lost
in the creek. The moon was fixed
over the mountain like a great eye.