I’ve done a little more tweaking to this constantly revised poem.
FOX HUNTING
Up on Bell's Hill, hours
after sundown; watchless
thus timeless; starlight printed
on the earth below:
all the lights of Exeter
in a black bowl. We breathe
through our mouths. No wind
in the hillside beeches
or the hawthorn hedge
we crouch behind. Bob looms
at my side, log-still,
indistinct, yet electric
with attention, his cradled shotgun
staring at the ground,
round-eyed. An owl quavers
in the ice-heart of the wood.
Movement at the field's edge: shadow
on shadow; an elision of shape
and formlessness. The fox slides
along a dark rail, single-
purposed, the fanatic's way -
hand over hand
through the long grass
at the field's edge.
Bob's gun coughs twice,
dry-voiced. Night cracks
like slate; shards fly
and the world tips up.
We stare, bloodshot, jangling,
into the bright darkness.
Shadows realign at the field's edge.
Night self-heals, like water.
10:46:12 PM 
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