Blazing gold leaves turned to leaf mold covering promises of another spring.

Time to write.

A red fox scampered lightly over crusty snow through boreal forest of spruce, winter-bare birch and alder. 

The last fresh tasty morsel squeezed from a garden turned fodder for moose.

Time to write.

The fox casted a sharp shadow under a full moon unveiled by fast-moving broken clouds.

Lonely skies, void of migratory birds, echoing Raven’s raucous cry.

Time to write.

Seeking cover from the moon’s watchful eye, the fox paused in the shadow of a spruce tree.

Freezing ground, heaving frost, embracing a warm mantel of falling snow.

Time to write.

It sat on its haunches and sniffed the air testing for a whiff of the subtle but alluring scent that led him here.

Stand and stretch after a hard day of writing; job well done.  Time to relax…

…and read.