Small Fox of the Apocalypse

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I was born in hope
in the middle of the apocalypse.
I was gifted a feather,
that I might keep my eyes on the sky,
and my dreams evergreen.

But my mother is worried;
we smell smoke. We fear
the roaring flames are
coming near.

My mother has told me
our fate depends on the Two-Leggeds.
She also said it is the Two-Leggeds
who have made Mother Earth so ill.

I hold my Talking Feather. I ask to speak
at the Council of All Beings.
Owl and Wolf and Bear fall quiet.
They nod their heads at me.

"Can we trust that the Two-Leggeds
who have caused so much death
are the same ones who will save us all?"

This is the question of small foxes
in the apocalypse. This time of terror
teaches even baby foxes
how to grieve.

Sigh. For Carrie at The Sunday Muse

With all of the human cost of the wildfires, in death and loss, my thoughts are with the wild ones, trying to outrun the flames. And with the fur companions that humans left behind, waiting for their return, who perished in the flames. Leaving an animal behind is something I will never understand.