A robin
The color of a bleeding sunset
Perches delicately on a spindly branch of a pine tree

The night sky hides the unknown
Distant caws and coos echoing throughout the woods
The air smells cool
And damp
And dark

The slight flicks of movement
Beneath the overgrown, wild bush
A skinny, deflated fox peers out at the robin
Its eyes glinting like wet pebbles
They gleam of malice
Of hunger
Of desperation

In one fluid motion
The fox tenses its hind legs
Curls its lips over peeking, pointed teeth
Flexes its paws, muscles rippling and tightening
Pounces across the twinkling stars

A brilliant blur of flailing, flapping feathers
The shrill voice of the struggling prisoner
Chaos rises from the throat of the forest and
The growing shrieks reverberate within the trees

And then

A sudden silence
The havoc quelled by the pressure of emptiness
Nature muffles its blanket
Over the blood stains in the dirt
Nature wraps its veil
Around the souls wounded by the wind
Nature draws its curtain
Across the lively act of violence
Across the violent act of life