Summer downpour
I took shelter under a
dead fall
angled across the trail.
Birch forest echoed with
thunder.
I settled in to find
some comfort on the
brown needles and
dead leaves.
Three fox cubs
shared my dry space.
Whimpering,
they eagerly licked my
salty hand and playfully
tugged, with razor teeth,
at my wet sleeve.
On later days I
visited their makeshift
den. I sat and read as
they played and ate
the food I shared.
Feeling both as surrogate
and as Assisi with his birds,
watching my cubs
grow from tumbling adolescent
play to the day they
joyfully killed their first
squirrel.
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