Page 50 - I Am The Seed
P. 50
FEBRUARY
50
17th
NIGHT OF WIND
How lost is the little fox at the borders of night, Poised in the forest of fern, in the trample of wind! Caught by the blowing cold of the mountain darkness, He shivers and runs under tall trees, whimpering, Brushing the tangles of dew. Pausing and running,
He searches the warm and shadowy hollow, the deep Home on the mountain’s side where the nuzzling, soft Bodies of little foxes may hide and sleep.
Frances M. Frost
