The Fox

A wood, lying dormant under its crisp coverlet of frost.
Brilliant sun slowly rising, throwing long shadows through the rising mist,
Stinging the frost, summoning meandering fingers of vapor.
Under this spectral veil, small things stir.
A fox, rusty fur edged with damp, watches; she waits.
Suddenly a loud crack and snap, a susurration of shifting leaves.
She starts, eyes alert and ears keening; birds fly and scatter.
All the world awakens to the fall of a tree, overburdened with glittering crystals of ice.
The fox dances off, landing lightly on the fallow ground,
Springing this way and that amongst the tall gray stones, leaving no hint of her passage.