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Innocent kits,
their rufous flanks wrangling
at play, three youngsters contend
for the white-flowered brush
of their sun bright home flush
on headlong bluffs--this land’s end--
where in some rank tangle
the red fox sits,

no ear no eye
to his litter, as if
he has not heard the falcon’s scream
nor known its critical attack
as talons raked his truant back
with hallmarks of a winged regime
on this hawk-shouldered cliff,
its open sky.