Issue 13, Summer 1956
The way the hunt progressed, I thought
The fox would hound me in my sleep,
The way he carved the bottom land
And tortured the rough autumn sod.
The path he travelled, like a cord
Dropped on a table by my hand
Dipped in and out a twisted creek
Like fishlines snarled and tangled fast,
Was leading on an eager boast
Of ugly people in a wood.