The fox studied the landscape. Much of what had once been open fields, now was polluted with houses. Not like the farmer’s houses or chicken coups. Instead these seem unsound, like a half dead tree during a thunderstorm; weak and ready to collapse at the slightest pressure.
The bird sat on the low branches of the bald maple tree. It was winter, and what was once fields and fields of white snow, now seemed dominated by nest after nest, formed oddly. Not anchored down to withstand a heavy winter storm.
The deer, stood back in the forest, or what was left. They looked out into weaving roads and drives up to huge machines standing still outside homes. The machines that seemed everywhere moving this way and that, rushing by like a strong wind, or dangerous currents of the rivers.
Katharine Keegan Fiction April 2012