Fox's Glade a poem in which i am neither a monster nor a martyr

current condition: old blood from a raven starting to wear off and rust; feathers stick out crumpled and haphazard from her pelt.  she has mutilated her front legs with her teeth, and her ribs and hips are protruding.

she had lived through three seasons now and each of them brought forth splendors that the amnesiac husk got to experience for what she interpreted as the first time.

this one, so far, was her favorite.  the forests were burning, leaves like embers falling to the ground.  she had spent her days as of late playing, and although she had attempted to catch a rabbit (or two, or three..) her attempts had ultimately failed.

when she awoke to a fresh, very cold dusting of white across the lands, she very much would've liked to take the time to explore it more, but her stomach twisted in knots and her hips hurt from protruding.. perhaps it was time to try again.

but she was so small.  even light game was difficult for her to catch.  what a nuisance.

she scented, heading off towards a deerscent that she hoped would be promising, oblivious to the company that would await.