Snowfall; it was to be expected this time of year, when the flurried snowflakes drifted lazily earthward and the moon hidden behind white cloud and mist. Looking skyward, there was nothing to observe but the endless never of winter. The trees stripped bare, dark branches stark against the boundless horizon. He lay cushioned in the snow beneath a skeletal ash, his nose rubbed grey from years hunting prey. The fur around his eyes faded and aged, the snow settling upon his ragged coat. He closed his exhausted eyes. The last red fox of the Siberian Steppe passed away peacefully, asleep.


From the Compendium of One Hundred Word Stories

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