Woodland Sketches I

When the moon is full and the energy in the air is only potential, the fox swathes the stars with her tail.  Like a hand moving against the current of a softly flowing stream, it pulls and drags the atmosphere into smooth vortices.  Each twitch of the tail is fluid, rolling satisfaction as vertebrae slide across cartilage.  There are no hunters.  No prey and no world to hunt them in. There is a hill, there is the moon, and there is the fox contemplating the peace.