A fox in the earth

There’s a fox in the earth and she dreams of snow. A dead thing: she craves sun, wind, flight, but she’s buried, pushed under years ago.

Topsoil holds her close and warm below, the safe, unseen dark her birth-right. There’s a fox in the earth, she dreams of snow.

She hungers, shivering at every mouse sound, though. If only she could get up, out, hunt, prowl, bite, but she’s buried, pushed under years ago.

Rain relents, earth cracks and light shines below. A dead thing imagines life, out, and in the light. There’s a fox in the earth and she dreams of snow.

She scratches at the surface, a field left fallow. Up there she could breathe deep and revel in its delight, but she’s buried, pushed under years ago.

The silt sea churns and washes, painfully slow, the sounds of a thousand years deafening her fright There’s a fox in the earth and she dreams of snow. but she’s buried, pushed under years ago.