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COMPOST BANQUET

At dawn this morning, I looked out the window into the snowy mist and there with my very own eyes beheld the culprit at last. There in the dirt scattered upon the snow stood the dastardly dirt-digger who has been disinterring the composted garbage from wherever I bury it in the garden-- only to now and then find it dug up again a day or two later-- but leaving no sign of who had done it. I should have known. At first I'd thought it was a tanuki (Japanese racoon), who are mythically renowned in Japan for their trickery and deceipt; but then, not having seen any tanuki around recently, I began to think it might be the dogs from down in the village, who are known to wander about some nights; but in mid-winter? So I'd thought my garbage deposit was safe this time, especially since it had snowed heavily just after I buried it, hence it was under many centimeters of snow as well. But this morning, as I say, there in the mist, glowing in all his redness, gleefully digging dark dirt up onto the pure white snow and being monitored carefully by Dr. Crow and his shapely crowette-- two fluffed-up chunks of blackness, blobs of leftover night shuffling from foot to foot atop two garden stakes-- was the Dancing Fox. The dark duo sat there nightfully grumbling, bundles of feathers waiting their turn, saying get the lead out will you foxy, you've had enough, don't be greedy-- when he had done all the work-- and at last Fox finished his delicate browsing (or couldn't stand the constant nagging) and left the scene on bouncy tiptoe, at which point I turned the bedroom light on and the corvine couple cursed loudly over their shoulders as they flew huffily away from their rightful turn at the luscious banquet that just lay there, awaiting their discerning beaks.