Wolf and Foxhole
The wolf licked his jowls when he sniffed out his perfect burrow. Scent left, he fashionably spiraled in to meet the maker, the fox. The fibrous shades of white to black stood astute as his beating eyes and heart met the sight of the gatekeeper. The piercing excitement of two glows and a tail, unlike his own, flashed of black to white, then red like the fallen leaves. In sight, the wolf attempted to encroach as the fox nestled deeper in to her burrow. Sniffs and snarls ensued with every attempt to approach the irresistible delight of something barely out of reach. He shook and spun his head, while the dense dirt stood to resist him. The resentment of the barrier grew and so did his need to meet the maker of the home. He spiralled his twisted neck with more will and fervor, more angst, more of every emotion he could dig up as he attempted to take what he wanted. She was in too deep and he was half buried. It's only a matter of time. The wolf will take the foxhole.