Outdoor writing contest first place: Beautiful dead things

The forest was still alive; crepuscular animals ran and played about in the fallen leaves and undergrowth. The night had not arrived, so the feeling of safety and warmth had not yet left.

The forest itself was not unusual, relatively dense and teeming with life. It was graced by the beauty of wilderness, completely untouched by human hands. In the very center of the forest was an ancient oak, moss-covered and huge. Its roots stretched throughout the forest, seemingly old as life itself and just as intricate. Every year, the falling of its leaves marked the beginning of autumn and a new era of life … or a lack thereof.

The leaves were a hauntingly beautiful reminder of the death to come to the forest. All the trees, the oak included, would lose their elaborate coats of red and yellow and orange, hunkering down deep within themselves in preparation for winter. Most of the vegetation in the forest would die, unable to survive the colder temperatures, leaving only the hardier undergrowth and evergreen bushes. The animals were slightly luckier, either preparing for hibernation or growing thicker layers of skin and fur. Even so, some would lose their lives in the cold bleakness of winter.

But the forest still had time to prepare. It was only early autumn, the chill not yet fully set in. The trees and bushes still clung to their greenery, delaying the onset of death for as long as possible. A small herd of deer finished off a collection of forbs at the base of the oak, slowly moving on to another part of the forest. Squirrels chittered in its branches, collecting the last acorns still clinging to life. There were three birds nests hidden within the changing leaves, empty and forgotten.

As the sun continued to set and darkness made its way into the forest, a light breeze blew through the foliage, heralding a slight chill into the otherwise warm autumn evening. The sounds of night began to creep in; frogs croaked from the small pond at the far edge of the forest and crickets chirped out their song just like every night before. Plants ended their daylight activities and prepared for the final pushes of growth before winter. The animals that did not adhere to nocturnal patterns found their sleep, finding safety among roots, bushes, and burrows in the dirt.

Those that did were just rousing themselves from rest. Moths flitted around, chasing moonlight and the life that came with it. Owls and bats flew about, beginning their hunt for food in the near dark. Raccoons pawed away at the underbrush, chattering in excitement at the treasures they found. A singular adolescent fox darted out from its den under a fir tree.

For once it was not in search of food. Still young and unaware of the dangers of night, this fox was out for a jaunt of leisure before the night progressed further. It was not particularly fast or agile, still maintaining the clumsiness of childhood, but old enough to go out on its own. It flitted between bushes, aware enough of danger that it stayed close to the sheltering tree trunks.

Staying safe was not enough to sate the little fox’s curiosity, though. It had not yet learned what lurked above in the moonlit shadows. With unruly confidence, it darted out once more into the open, running towards the large oak tree. The oak was something strange, large enough to be foreign to the young fox. As it ran, its pelt matched the fallen leaves perfectly, providing an almost impeccable camouflage.

Just before the fox ventured out, though, a large owl alighted onto the branches of the magnificent oak. It was completely silent, watching the small fox intently. Everything was still for a single moment; the fox sat at the base of the tree, the owl was unmoving, the forest seemingly silent. Then, with the languid precision only a predator could possess, the owl dove and pinned the fox with its talons.

With a yelp, the young fox squirmed under the powerful grip. Biting and scratching, it struggled, doing everything it could to fight off the owl. Through some stroke of luck or pure chance it broke free, using its remaining effort to dive into a hollow under the roots of the oak. The owl, now slighted, flew off, leaving the small fox panting and whining softly in the dirt.

The tree stood tall, dwarfing the fox lying amongst its roots. It watched as the fox licked its wounds, trying in vain to staunch the agony. It was a calming presence, providing an almost warmth from its roots. The oak pitied the little thing it sheltered, regardless of the normality of the predation that occurred in the forest.

The little fox lay there for some time, shivering, its rusty orange tail curled around itself for comfort. Night wrapped the forest fully in its embrace, and still the fox laid there until it huffed a final, weak breath and went still.

The small body laid there, curled up, the warmth not yet fully gone, under the roots of the oak tree. It looked peaceful, in a way that can only accompany the finality of death. The sounds of night continued around the tree, ignorant of the tragedy that had just occurred. The oak mourned the loss under its roots.

And such was the way of the forest, especially during the colder months; death was a normality. Anywhere there was life, death accompanied it in a brutal, alluring dance. Autumn, at least in the forest, was a season of beautiful dead things.