Out of the woods. Along the road. Through the fence. Into the frost-hard field.
And overhead, the sky is a chilling blue.
Nothing you have can beat them, Henry Foxington.
Why do we think they are so much better than you?
Over the field. Under the fence. Up the road. Under the waiting trees.
And, underfoot, the hooves and scrabbling paws.
Hide in the cold brown earth and hold your breath.
Why are their deaths more merciful than yours?