The arctic tempest was at its peak

Thick, doughy clouds bursting into snowflakes

The snow accumulating into pure white stars

Sprinkled lightly into the turbulent, writhing winds

Deep within the vindictive terrain was a secret

A hidden grove, filled with unseen magic

From beyond the gates of what existed in this world

Where the ghost wailed to idle ears

And faeries flitted between the shadows

The trees stood with fortitude, russet spires of unmoving grace

ice, sheathed around the sturdy trunk-pallid ribbons

Branches lain over the treasured woodland

Frozen droplets clung to the silver, once verdant, leaves

Everything once alive, now frosted over in a thick coating of silver hues

The grove stood silent in time, paralyzed

A brook stood tranquil, immobilized

Water held fast, akin to a silent scream

The grove was a song, expected to be frozen in the essence of winter

But inside the desolate wood, one thing was alive and well

Beneath the petrified undergrowth lived the sentinel of the grove

A white fox, his pelt translucent but whiter than snow

His eyes were two dark slate buttons

Always watching…

And waiting…

His movements were quicker than a wink from the elusive sun

Soft clumps of snow gathered around his impressions

Clinging to the remnants of his path

Shortly after, his trail swept away by the wind

As if to cover the bane of his existence

Keeping to the strict boundaries of the wood

The sentinel never left its palace of ice

The crimson berries grown sparsely on the bushes drew him out

The same red jewels extremely potent to those who dared feast

But not to the sentinel, who guarded the thicket with an unwavering courage

Even as the sound of screaming gales passed into lands where the sand dunes rose

And the icicles began tumbling from the forest canopy

The sentinel still watched, and waited

And waited…

And waited…