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Wind choked the life out of the frail stemmed primroses. The flowers swung here, swung there, shaking their pretty petaled heads about as if in lunacy. The wind howled like a hungry wolf, famished, starving, wanting... Rain does not fall and neither does a tornado. There is just a furious, murderous and hungry wind, itching with strong unseen fingers to wreak and cause havoc and suck the life out of the living.
A pack of foxes cower in their den. Pretty things, they are. Copper and auburn fur, nurtured by mother and the cool scent of the earth, a bushy tail that represents all they stand for, curious, twitching whiskers and a moist black nose. The mother has just had her litter. Six young uns' suckle underneath her hungrily.
One of the babes has ventured too far to the opening of the den. The mothers barks in alarm and fear and the father makes to go after him, bushy tail swaying worriedly. That is his mistake.
The wind prowls the grounds, sniffing, touching, testing.
In the forests of the night, the howl of mother and wind rise above all and a frightened young fox cuddles up to his father as the two are whisked away into the depths of the night.
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I can safely cross out 'new shin guards' and 'hpbook6' from my wishlist. Hooray hooray hooray.
