The fox:
The hunter cocks his shotgun,
he glares down the scope with precision.
Aims for a fiery orange tuft of fur in the bushes.
Bang.
He misses.
The fox scurries away, not wanting to become another trophy stuffed with bloody fluff on a shelf for everyone to see.
The hunters precise look turns into a scowl,
the fox twist and turns through the paths he has before, as they turn into debris behind his very feet.
Run, little fox, run.
Don’t let the Hunter have his fun,
Don’t let him hear your cries,
Don’t let him bring you to your demise.
Don’t step on that stick you know will crack, he’ll shoot you in the back.
The rain seems to pour down mockingly, so get to your home where the warmth could possibly be.
…
The hunter drags a bloody carcass back – its orange fur stained a gut red.
I said run, fox, run.
It’s too late for that