Off the wooded mountain
further from the sun
yet closer to the twentieth century houses
and country road,
the hiker rests
before leaving for home.

The hiker sees the railroad tracks
through the late spring trees
and bushes
the the Deleware and Hudson freights
no longer travel.

Crows
and other birds
call under the cloudy sky
that tease the hiker
with the promise of rain
or perhaps sun.

The hiker knows that solitude
can change at any moment
and so does the fox
who materializes from the shuddering bushes.

Gray fur
with a hint of red
welcomes the fickle sunlight
as the fox pads softly
across the fallen forest leaves
and moss
and lichen-covered granite rocks
that were a gift of the glaciers.

The hiker sits and watches
unmoving
silent
and still
as the fox walks
twenty
then fifteen feet closer
to the species it knows as enemy
but who means the fox no harm.

The hiker sits and wonders
if the fox had seen
or sensed with ancient intuition
the denim and plaid presence
sitting on the beech root.

The fox sniffs,
head high
and runs into the safety of the forest
where the meaning of true freedom
is known to some.

The hiker slowly stands,
stretches,
and heads for home
with the spirit of the fox
unforgotten.