Michelle Nichols Wright

Fox Blossoms

Foxes reside among the graves in the cemetery where my mother is buried. They are not afraid of grief or the plastic flowers laid out in urns, and they have gutted whole bouquets, carrying silk hydrangeas and plastic magnolias back to their dens in daylight, waiting only until the mourners leave to raid the graves and rush the blooms back to pups who yip and howl and tear apart the synthetic beauty. Old women complain, buy cheaper flowers to secure with wire, and demand poison or traps, but the groundsmen only gather the torn petals when the foxes are done.

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