Fox hole

The black morning breaks to the clatter of foxes.

She squealing in fear,

he humming with the certainty of the here and now.

When all is done and done,

does he make excuses about the busy day ahead,

or does he wait until she falls asleep to leave.

Worse, does he sleep quietly through the night by her side hinting at stunted promise.

Or is it a pact.

I'll bring you misery but stability, he tells her flicking his whiskers.

And she, she howls at his darkness,

because the alternative is nothing.