Fox followed Lark through meadow so somber,
leaves fringed the glade all honey and amber.
Fox chased after Lark, careless to winter
that crept ever closer to the fleet-footed sprinter.
Fox’s fur shone with snow, sun danced with moon,
the seasons turned round to the cry of the Loon.
Lark led Fox to a nest of russet and gold,
the twining twigs faded, twisted and old.
Lark lay down with Fox for the flight of an hour,
Fox bit her breast and took Lark’s sweet flower.
Lark sang a dirge as she blossomed wine-bright,
Fox left Lark for dead, in the shade of the night.