I lift the curtain on the night,

so quiet you can hear

litter rattle as it rolls—

and there,

darting down the tarmac,

more silent than discarded trash,

one fox, sleek and swift,

sandy coat, white-tipped tail

a horizontal pointer to places passed,

and clamped in its maw

a pale treasure—

half a bread bun, perhaps,

or a chunk of chicken

left willingly by cat ladies,

fox ladies,

who, like me,

hunger to catch a glimpse

of a wild jewel

surrounded by a desert

of urban ugliness.