a bird sat atop a thin birch branch. gusts of wind shook the skeletal tree, stripped bare by the hostile winter. his feathers, blue and white and black, bristled as cold fingers ran down his spine and plucked his plumage. the smothered earth mirrored the laden sky, and the laden sky wooed the smothered earth, sending down miniature facsimiles of the wooly clouds it had pulled up to its chin.
a fox appeared.
the fox was red, and sleek, and beautiful. he slinked through the snow, stepping in the footprints of some unknown predecessor. the fox stopped at the foot of the birch tree, and the jay called out to him.
hey!
the fox’s head swiveled, tracing the horizon.
hey!
the fox looked up.
you’re beautiful! do you know that? you’re beautiful!
yes, I do, said the fox.
you’ve sung this song before,
on other days,
in other words,
as other birds.
I know I’m beautiful. I don’t need to be told.
the bird hopped along its branch, flitting between perches, and the gentle sway of the tree sprinkled powdered sugar down to its root.
the bird spoke.
where are you going?
home, replied the fox, curtly.
it’s cold.
and i need to warm up.
and
i want to be alone.
there’s no one waiting for you there? asked the bird.
the fox did not answer.
the bird, discomforted by the silence, looked towards the opaque horizon. when he turned his beady eyes back down, he saw the fox slink away, head lowered, nose carving a faint gulley into the snow. his footfalls continued to trace the echoic pawprints, renewing the divots leveled by the thickening precipitation. after a beat, the fox disappeared into the white canvas, and the bird’s empty gut rumbled. he was hungry. what would he have for dinner?