This poem came out of the October 1, 2013 Poetry Fishbowl. It was inspired by a prompt from Dreamwidth user Brushwolf. It has been sponsored by janetmiles.
Reynaud has never loved the British,
and the British have always hated foxes.
The French and the British
have been at war -- off and on --
for centuries, but battle
was never a fox's field of favor.
There is always someone,
a peasant displeased with his lord perhaps,
who will turn the brush as the hunt goes by
to give the red runner a little extra luck.
America, too, has its foxhunts,
though they're different in form,
a single hound and hunter baying on the trail.
Reynard is no fool,
and knows them anyway.
It is the trickster's game he plays,
a subtle war waged on social structure.
He teaches the leaders to be deceitful,
to sneak and steal and skulk
so before you know it,
the foxes are watching the henhouse
and Reynard laughs all the way back to his den.