They burn the field with floodlights
to scatter the local foxes, who flee
when it’s bright, burying themselves
in brush and broken bracken.
Their shadows are liquid quick, drawn
to the secrecy of their burrows like magnets.
We were the same, diving beneath
the underpass for that moment
of truffle rarity, where the glow of neon signs
and sporadic, spiralling lights were gone
and we were left in the cool air,
bathed in the silence of the night.