September Ars Poetica
We angled through a maze of overflow parking
all the way to yellow perimeter cones
by the exit & saw a small fox, next to
a few fellow tourists milling in the wet weather.
The fox yawned, sniffed a Volvo’s tires.
Here in a universe of cars
on the mud-trampled field, vibrating
life. In Gaelic, fox is sionnach, or madra rua
(red dog), rain-beaded, skinny; a fox
querying for food, pantomiming
with his paws something indecipherable.
A slickered child put an Oreo in the grass for him
near our rented Nissan. We’d come on the ferry
to see the Cliffs of Moher,
left from Dingle early but hit the crowds
anyway. Like kindergarteners crossing a street,
we’d meekly parked the Juke as directed, having driven
there in fear, left side of the road,
right-side steering wheel, gasped oh hello!
at green Moher cliff-tops shouldering the coast.
Hello, little fox. & as luck will, we were ferociously lashed
by a squall, soon exiting again,
defeated, dripping. Thirty minutes at Moher,
tops. Of course, the fox was gone
by then & we gave it up, already
anticipating Galway & the road ahead.