Tiny foxes, all red and white; some black
Lined up neat, side by side
waiting their turn
to don velvet gloves
in nighttime prayer . . .
(foxes know how to say goodnight to their Mother)
. . . as dusk settles in, reaching high makes dismay
too wet for warmth,
too limp to cover,
now drooping in rain.
What do foxes do when their gloves get wet?