As wind blew leaves from trees, silent sadness was enveloping whole forest.
Under huge oak tree lied small fox cub.
....
Branches swayed gently, as if mourning with the earth itself. Beneath a wide, ancient tree, a small fox cub lay curled in a bed of fallen leaves. His fur, soft and pale like morning mist, barely stirred with each trembling breath.
He was alone.
The scent of smoke and feathers still haunted the edges of his memory.
The cries.
The screeches of winged beasts with cruel eyes. The flash of talons. The scream that had been his mother's last.
He had run.
His tiny legs carrying him through the underbrush, over roots and through thorned bushes, until the scent of blood was far behind.
Now he hid, deep in the forest's heart.
He hadn't meant to survive.
He had only meant to run.
---
