Above our heads, the tree branches come together to form a thatched white structure. Domed, like a birdcage. Are we trapped in a giant white birdcage? Have we been in one this whole time? Is that why we walk in circles?
I keep staring up. The fox is still screaming. I see that the cage is not so giant. We are not inside it, but next to it. And it is not really a cage, but a beautiful little structure. Beautiful and white like a wedding cake. Or at least it would be beautiful if the fox’s blood had not stained the snow right beside it.
The fox is still barking, and I am still saying I hear you.
I hear you.
Because I recognize that little white dome. It is not a cage or a wedding cake.
I really hear you now.