Just a thought …

At least three of the books of poetry I have recently reviewed featured foxes. All three, I am pretty sure, were by women. All three also gave every impression of being grounded in actual encounter with the red-furred canid. Anyone who has met a fox knows there is something canny — and uncanny — about them. 
Women and foxes may have an affinity for one another. I would not be surprised.

I have had brushes with foxes, but only one actual encounter, which lasted  just five or ten minutes. The sense I had was of a creature knowing how to size me up. I felt privileged he would take the time. He did not run away. He stopped and looked, then took his leave.

Foxes, in person, live up to their legend. Christ referred to Herod as “that fox.” Jimmy Hendrix sang about that foxy lady. My very own wife — a redhead — has chosen Reynard as her online nickname.

Foxes do not make good pets. The so-called domesticated red fox is domesticated only to an extent. Foxes are best left to themselves — and to poetry.