Do writers turn into foxes?

Here we go again... with just enough strength to type in someone else's writing. Compare the following:

"[...] 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 wearily 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, / Brilliantly, concentratedly, / Coming about is 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" (yes, it's Ted Hughes' "The Thought Fox")

now from Saul Bellow's novel "Herzog":
"He was at his letter writing again in the morning. The little desk at the window was black, rivaling the blackness of his fire escape, those rails dipped in asphalt, a heavy cosmetic coat of black, rails equidistant but appearing according to the laws of perspective. He had letters to write. He was busy, busy, in pursuit of objects he was only now, and dimly, beginning to understand. His first message today, begun half-consciously as he was waking up, was to Monsignor Hilton, the priest who had brought Madeleine into the Church. Sipping his black coffee, Herzog in his cotton paisley robe narrowed his eyes and cleared his throat, already aware of the anger, the pervasive indignation he felt."