P R O L O G U E

Her vantage was at ground level. She enjoyed the lookout it gave
her over the visitors who wandered into her domain. Or, this morning,
intruders who used bulky trucks and top-heavy diggers to desecrate the
place she called home.

The crone sniffed the air, detecting many human scents coming from
the clearing nearest the den, which meant that another life had come to
an end. Happily? Peacefully? She didn’t know. There was no point in
investing dreams or worry in the cycle of life. That energy she could use to
care for the youngest of the brood, who lived directly beneath her in the
series of tunnels she had designed and dug herself.

The workmen were talking rapidly in the strange tongue she had learned
over time, and one was smoking. The pungent odor irritated the old fox’s
sensitive nose, but she knew a breeze would soon carry it away.

Squinting, she could glimpse the freshly unearthed soil forming a pile,
which would soon be covered by a bright blue tarp. The men were slowing
down now, satisfied with their work, and sipping water off to the side.

Soon, the bereaved arrived, making as little noise as possible, their ve-
hicles gliding respectfully to a halt, lining the paved road that curved past
several huge maples. Car doors opened and then shut. Murmurs of con-
versation floated to her ears.

The she-fox struggled to hear, which was a sign of her age. She shrugged
this off. Besides, why should she listen to what the humans were saying
about their loved ones? They had been brought together by someone they
all knew, now gone. Too little, too late, she thought.

Farewells were silly, she’d always believed, since everyone knew that souls
would simply meet up later in what lay beyond. Many of her own family
would not survive in any given season: hawks, owls, and the occasional
coyote ensured that loss was a perpetual part of their world.

Still, no fox found it easy to lose one of their own who had not yet
learned strategy or patience, leaping up and out toward danger, just to fill
an empty, growling belly. For a fleeting second, she wondered if rabbits or
squirrels, their natural prey, experienced these notions of missing another
soul, of wishing they had more time.

Then, she chortled at the sheer absurdity. She was surely showing her
age, getting a little batty, even to consider such a possibility.

The mourning ritual had begun, and the old fox heard laughter, prayers,
and tears. She sensed that the deceased one’s soul was hovering as though
caught between hunting and hibernation, and had not yet moved forward.
She loved this view of hers near the ancient but still stately fir tree. The
perfect place to marvel at how the inevitable and predictable were often
confused with the painful and momentous.

Time to check on her own family down below. She was quite sure they
needed her.