There was the clattering of bins and a squawk, but it was the scream that woke up Farmer Browning. It was a guttural scream of uttermost triumph
and rage, and it sent the Farmer lurching out of bed and in a fluid movement, out of bed and out the door. He grabbed a loaded shot gun from above the doorway and began running as if it was routine. The sun was barely rising and there was a slight lavender haze above the corn fields and the air was slightly crisp, like Autumn was on its way. The moon hung, as if suspended, like a pearly drop of dew on the tulips. It seemed to be laughing at the farmer, as if it knew everything about him. Him and the scream. The Farmer raced, his legs growing heavy, chest heaving as he continued on, and still bleary eyed from sleep, to the henhouse. Every few bounds he would mumble to himself and curse the henhouse. The gun bumped at his side and made his thigh ache as well. He could see the coop now, the hens had all clambered atop the roof and were squawking defiantly. There was a commotion and a sleek red tail slid under the fence and ran into the forest, a hen swinging from his powerful jaws. Late, the Farmer shot, missing the fox by more than meters.
The farmer swore and crouched down, gasping for breath. “I swear,” he wheezed “I’ll get dat sneaky devil, and i’ll ‘ang his pelt on da wall like a lost Da Vinci fo’ awl to see.” He puffed to the chickens. His brow furrowed, like a giant
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?furry caterpillar, crawling across his forehead, “Dat’ll be the day.” He muttered darkly. “Dat’ll be the day.”
From the shadows, two green eyes watched the farmer’s retreating figure. The sun was creeping up the dawn and the moon was slowly fading into the light cotton-candy sky. “Well,” Said the fox to the moon, “ That was entertaining.”
“And, If you are caught?” The moon replied fondly, though her voice was heavy with concern. “He is learning.”
The Fox scoffed. “Caught! Learning! He’s only human, he doesn’t know anything! I bet he can’t catch a chicken everyday and not get caught! He probably can’t even catch an ant! I’m bored with catching chickens anyway. I want to
fly like you.” The Fox grinned, showing his sharp white fangs. “Can I learn how? Will you teach me?” The fox asked, his ears pricking up. The Moon
was fading fast now and she spoke hurriedly.
“The fields are protected. Let your keen eyes guide you off the path, onto your own.” She sighed, disappearing.
“Will you?” The Fox asked again, staring up into the sky. He almost thought he heard her reply.
Personally, the Fox thought little of the sun. He was arrogant, selfish and always screamed out: “Look at me! I’m big, bright and the reason you’re all here!” The Sun’s light shined on the Fox’s back, warming his pelt as he sadly turned on heel, and disappeared into the dense underbrush, the warm light making patterns on the forest floor. The Fox admired his light step as he leapt effortlessly
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?up onto a large log and into the sandy burrow below. He rubbed his stomach against the warm loam by the entrance and crawled down into the dark, cool burrow of the Fox. He made himself comfortable and laid down, slowly drifting to sleep, he imagined other game. Other things to chase, like rabbits. Playfully he rolled onto his back and waved his paws around as if they were wings to help him fly.
Maybe then he would catch the silly crows that annoyed him from on top of the scarecrows. As his eyelids drooped lower and lower he dreamily imagined flying with the crows and the moon. The wind on his face and the slender stalks of bright, green, corn rubbing against his pelt made him tingle with joy. The dry ground beneath his paws would give way to him and he would fly. Not like a chicken, but really, up into the sky like a crow with the sun and the moon and the stars by his side where he could nip at the falling stars like fireflies. Then quiet suddenly with growing speed, he was falling. Down, down, down, and he hit the earth with a thud, the farmer stood above him his gun pointed at his muzzle. The once playful corn stalks leaned in, whispering darkly to him. “DAT’LL BE THE DAY!!!” The farmer shouted. Then, he pulled the trigger. The Fox screamed and leapt up, hitting his head on the shallow roof of his den. Panting he laid his muzzle on his paws. His heart was beating so quickly and hard that he feared that it would burst from his chest and fly off without him! I just want to fly. He thought, and the Moon’s words came back to him The fields are protected. Let your keen eyes guide you off the path, onto your own.
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?The Fox gulped deeply and buried his forepaw into the soil, lifting it up he
noticed the little dirt specks in between his claws and he licked it off, mulling
thoughts over in his head. I want to fly. He would not be afraid. He knew what he
had to do. ........
There was a scream. Again, the Farmer lurched and flew out from under the warm quilt and out the door, his shotgun ready. He fumbled and tripped as he ran to the chicken coop. Yet everything was fine. No chickens dead on the roof, no squawking or crowing. “By god, He didn't kill’ em awl did ‘e?” The Farmer lifted the coops roof and stared inside. Twelve perfectly fine chickens looked up at him innocently. The Farmer Browning scratched his balding head and frowned, lowering the coop’s roof back down. He mumbled something intelligible and returned to the house. The grass was wet with dew and spiderwebs were glistening with pearly drops of condensation. The suns first ray shone across the yard on to the porch where a red fox sat. The Farmer gasped, staring into the Fox’s big green eyes. At the Fox’s feet there sat a dead hen.
Browning took a step back, staring into the fox’s eyes. He seemed to be sad about something, like it knew it was going to die. Then it spoke. “I’m sorry.” It said softly. Farmer Browning gasped for breath. This can’t be happening. It can’t be talking! “I came to return it.” The fox said, sliding its gaze to the hen besides him. Then he looked up sharply. “Will you do me a favor?” He stepped
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?over the chicken’s carcass and towards the farmer. “Sorry, by the way. I’m not very good at speaking to the humans. I’m surprised you are even listening!”
“Don’ you take anozzer step towards me yah hear?” The Farmer shouted, raising his shot gun and turning his head. “Or I’ all fire!” The Fox raised his paw and stopped.
“Well this makes everything so much easier,” The Fox said, staring into the Farmer’s eyes. Then slid his gaze up into the sky, to the moon and the stars. He looked back then and it was the farmer who felt afraid. He was so sorry and so scared. I don’t wanna do it. He thought.
“You get to do what you always wanted to do.” The Fox said nonchalantly. “No!” Said the Farmer, breathlessly, transfixed on the fox’s green eyes. “Yes!” The fox barked forcefully, “I’m not afraid, I just want to fly,” He said
more softly and he placed his paw down and looked at the farmer’s shocked eyes and said again. “I want to fly.” And he did. There was a bang and the farmer shook with astonishment. He hadn't wanted to do it. He looked up into the dawn and screamed. Not like the fox had but a long hair-raising shriek of pain and grief. His heart ached with what he’d done and his shoulders were heavy from pain.
Slowly he sank to his knees and crawled towards the body, gasping. The Farmer reached out and stroked the red pelt. Tears fell and splattered against the Fox’s coat. Above him a shooting star flew across the sky.
He got what he wanted. He wanted. To
fly.
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?.......
The funeral took place in the backyard of the farm at dawn besides
the henhouse. The moon stayed a bit longer to watch, and she looked down on the little farm and the tiny figure far below her. she watched, intrigued by the Farmer as he lifted and turned the spade for the Fox. She laughed at the silly man. Human compulsions were so strange. And the Moon Laughed because these were people who never listened to what was being told or what lesson was being taught unless a fox told them. She watched the earth turn beneath the man’s feet, sweat beaded on his brow like dew on early cobwebs. She watched as the Farmer crawled out from the ditch, the hens clucking from the henhouse.
Slowly the Farmer lowered the limp body into the pit, tears dripping off
his cheeks, above the moon smiled, for her center ached too for the Fox. As if defeated, the Farmer picked up the spade and started shoveling again, filling in the grave he made. Bit by bit, minute by minute, he filled in the grave. With each burn of his arms, he thought of the fox. With each blister that pained his hands he apologized for what he’d done. With each tear that welled up, he told himself to go on. To finish the work he’d started. Finally all that was left was a
patch of dirt and a memory.
From his pocket he pulled out a ragged, checkered handkerchief, and the farmer mopped his brow. Tears stained his cheeks and a single drop leaked out from the corner of his eye. It welled up and spilled over, shimmering slightly, the
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?Fox’s last resting place reflected in its glassy surface. It made its way down his cheek and read the story on his skin. It washed away his sins as it hung from the end of Farmer Browning’s nose and paused. The moon watched as the tear hesitated and fell. It fell with passion and patience and for a man and a fox. And though no one knew about this moment but the moon and the man, it had such significance, for it was the carrier of worlds and the parcel of life and death.
Then, it hit the ground, splattering against the freshly dug earth. It sizzled as it hit the ground, before sinking into the thirsty soil. Then, from the earth, emerged a bud. As fresh and purple as the morning sky, the bud grew taller and grew sprouts and hunched over before opening into a flower. Into a bleeding heart. It was as pure and red as the fox in which it was born from, and the seconds grew long and slowed as it bobbed its head as if greeting the stunned farmer. From between its scarlet petals, pushed out a little cyan star. It glowed brightly under the starlight and reflected in the farmer’s wide eyes. It rose shakily and wavered with each centimeter it took on, like an infant walking for the first time. The Farmer gasped and stumbled, falling onto his back. As the star ascended, it grew larger and stronger. It’s light reflected in Farmer Browning’s eyes and it grew lighter and brighter. It elongated and grew a tail and muzzle. The Fox’s form took hold and he gleamed golden, bright light glowing off his pelt. He turned his head to face the Farmer, smiling joyfully.
Farmer Browning reached up into the glowing light. It was so beautiful. Then the fox yip-barked into the night. But, the barks were different then
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the screams that had haunted Farmer Browning for months. This cry was of joy. of destiny and days to come and the dark days that wouldn’t. The Farmer heard someone calling his name. But the words were muffled, as if they were under a thick layer of ice. He felt the ice crack under his feet, and strangely, he wasn’t afraid to fall through. They called his name, but he didn’t avert his eyes. He stared up at the fox and realized that he as himself was so small. Compared to this fox, he was just a speck. Just a speck in the big wide world.
There were many someones holding his shoulders now, dragging him, but everything was white sound and the glowing fox that was imprinted behind his eyelids every time he closed his eyes. He stared up into the sky as he was loaded up onto the cot. As the doors closed, he saw a gold glint over the fields, shooting up into the sky. The first rays of sun rested on his eyelids as the ice shattered and he fell into the ice cold water. He did not resurface.

Howard Browning spent 6 years in a coma before dying of old age in a Wisconsin hospital. He awoke briefly in his last few hours to say his closing words: “Salutations and farewells old friend. Soon I will fly with the moon and stars like you.” These words were engraved on his gravestone shortly after his death.

The fox watched from above with the moon. Waiting for an old friend.