Fox Fire

Licks of black hair fallen over sun-kissed shoulders.

Eyes so red, a demon seemed to evoke its words from them.

Fangs as sharp as canines, like a dog that might have been raised by the wilds.

This is the nine-tails,

a delicate, rabid yet uniquely wild animal.

Seen in her element,

she is the epitome of beauty.

Coiled under pressure, under the expectations of society and she is regarded no more than a woman befitting a straight jacket.

These are things that must not be tainted,

must be left to the freedom of nature so they may coil and spin through thicket and tweed like the whispers of the wind.

Flames dance with them,

their bodies like fire.

And if you stare into their eyes long enough, you'll see the flames reflect back from them.

She is the yang, the yin - a brother much older and calmer - to his mild tempest.

She is the fury ignited,

the woman scorned as wrath.

Yet, all in the same, she desires to be loved.

Free, yet loved.

In the aching cold of the night,

when the Wolf Creek plays tricks on the ears.

You may hear her.

You may hear her cries in the night, fox fire dancing behind her as she swirls through the forest, leaving only a glimmer of her tails.

For the only thing to sooth her is Aoi.

The other yin to her.

The blue.

The calm.

Her rest to her storm.

And so, when the yin comes back to the yang,

there are no yips or cries within the forest tonight.

There are none on other nights.

She is whole.

At peace.

And one once more.