Fox Cycle is a traditional sonnet crown; adorned with a
Vixen knows terrible secrets
The vixen dug into the earth, her home.
Her belly ached with glassy pain as her
expanding cervix gaped for her daughter.
Vixen did not think quite as you or I.
Instinct led her to scour these yew roots, stab
Xyst-like order into the forest. Small
explosions detonated her gut. She
never slowed until she felt the hard press:
Kenned her cub’s arrival. There wasn’t time;
no lining of grass or fur. This mystic,
overwhelming birth took hold too fast. Her
wild eyes dilated as she pushed the
sack, the blood, the baby into the dirt.
The cub was born into stench and darkness.