Fox in a Tree Stump

Judith Beveridge

I gripped the branch 

 and waited in a paddock that ran on 

 over harder and harder earth. 

 Leaving me with smoke and the stick 

 to beat the fox, my uncle drove off. 

Terror barrel-rode through my stomach. 

 I knew my uncle, his quick rabbit-skinning hands, 

 his arms like dry river-beds dammed at the shoulders, 

 his voice harsh, kelpie-cursing, 

 would not understand if I let the fox run to the bush. 

Fox-hairs of dust sweated in my palms. 

 I stood in the exhaust of leaves 

 the short time it takes a tongue 

 to reach into a hurting body and strike ashes. 

A twig snapped. The fox stood, coughing. 

 The branch on its neck 

 rang like a shot: 

 a shot so loud it shook out a flock 

 of galahs from their trees, 

 cracked like a wave 

 the buried sleep of rabbits. 

When my uncle came back, he threw 

 the charred body into a ditch. 

 I turned away kicking earth over the bloodspots of fire 

 and prayed not to waken 

 another animal from the wheat. 

 I was nine years old. All my life 

 I'd stuck close to my yelled name. 

 I was a child praying for the dark 

 each time the sun caught my uncle's eye.