A frightened Stranger staggers through the Twisted Antler Wood,
Wounded deep and mumbling, his pawprints filled with blood.
Three young foxes sniff him out beneath the winter glow.
They listen to his gasping tale while sheltered from the snow . . .
A Barn holds swaying secrets, hung and dripping from its eaves.
A shade plucks foxes from the night, invisible as leaves.
The Ragged waits for helpless things while grinning in its tomb.
Laura Roady
