Another Dead Animal Poem

He wants to visit the dead fox,
being drawn upwind by the knowledge of it there.
We are both consistently amazed by it,
each in our own way.
Where is this fox, he asks with his nose.
I wonder if there is meaning in that rigid snarl,
or the way the poor remnant of a body folds
so sharply backward on itself.
Is there anything here for him? Anything for me?
Let his senses tell him now; mine may never say.
We move on; time is short,
and there are many further things in life to smell.

October 24 2011