I'm off to sleep (at 2 in the afternoon, haha) so you might like to read some Ted Hughes (now known primarily as the husband of Sylvia Plath, but I think he's a much better poet). Voila, "The thought-fox" from the Critical Quarterly, 1984:
THE THOUGHT-FOXYou can read more about Ted Hughes on critic Richard Webster's site here.
I imagine this midnight moment’s forest:
Something else is alive
Beside the clock’s loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.
Through the window I see no star:
Something more near
Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness:
Cold, delicately as the dark snow,
A fox’s nose touches twig, leaf;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now
Sets neat prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come
Across clearings, an eye,
A widening deepening greenness,
Coming about its own business
Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox
It enters the dark hole of the head.
The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.
So what's your favourite vulpine story? Or are you less fond of Reynard and more a fan of Puss-in-boots?