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White Fox
The arctic tempest was at its peak
Thick, doughy clouds bursting into snowflakes
The snow accumulating into pure white stars
Sprinkled lightly into the turbulent, writhing winds
Deep within the vindictive terrain was a secret
A hidden grove, filled with unseen magic
From beyond the gates of what existed in this world
Where the ghost wailed to idle ears
And faeries flitted between the shadows
The trees stood with fortitude, russet spires of unmoving grace
ice, sheathed around the sturdy trunk-pallid ribbons
Branches lain over the treasured woodland
Frozen droplets clung to the silver, once verdant, leaves
Everything once alive, now frosted over in a thick coating of silver hues
The grove stood silent in time, paralyzed
A brook stood tranquil, immobilized
Water held fast, akin to a silent scream
The grove was a song, expected to be frozen in the essence of winter
But inside the desolate wood, one thing was alive and well
Beneath the petrified undergrowth lived the sentinel of the grove
A white fox, his pelt translucent but whiter than snow
His eyes were two dark slate buttons
Always watching…
And waiting…
His movements were quicker than a wink from the elusive sun
Soft clumps of snow gathered around his impressions
Clinging to the remnants of his path
Shortly after, his trail swept away by the wind
As if to cover the bane of his existence
Keeping to the strict boundaries of the wood
The sentinel never left its palace of ice
The crimson berries grown sparsely on the bushes drew him out
The same red jewels extremely potent to those who dared feast
But not to the sentinel, who guarded the thicket with an unwavering courage
Even as the sound of screaming gales passed into lands where the sand dunes rose
And the icicles began tumbling from the forest canopy
The sentinel still watched, and waited
And waited…
And waited…
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