In winter twilight in the quiet mountains
a lone fox, resembling a thin, peeled shred of bark,
a three-forked, bare tree.
He gives off a strong odour of iron,
closely watching the invisible hunter
climbing up the foothills.
He recognizes, too, the sound of his footsteps:
The fox slowly climbs down from the tree,
and disappears into the four-dimensional desolation,
where the moon-coloured vixen waits for him.