Red Thread Through the Trees: A Fox Speaks

I move like a question no one dares to ask aloud. Soft-footed. Sharp-eyed. I was born between shadows, stitched from dusk and flame— a whisper in the underbrush with teeth. You call me sly. I call it survival. I know the wind before it changes. I know the hush that means danger. I know how to vanish without meaning to. Your world is loud. Metal, smoke, hunger that swallows without tasting. Mine is the flick of a leaf, the crackle of something small making the wrong move. I don’t chase what doesn’t want to be found. I wait. I listen. I know how to want quietly. At night, I run— not to get somewhere, but because running is what keeps my name from rusting. The earth sings in pawbeats, and I answer, red thread stitching a story through the trees.