Madame Fox cries tears of black tar.
She is the heartbreak that is the last thing ex-lovers share. She is the dead rose, caught in the middle.
She could surrender to this and be torn apart – a conjoined heart still beating as it is ripped asunder, geysering lifeblood in faltering plumes – or she can change, shift and escape: grow fleet, grow feral.
They call her name, make bets on who she will come to, but she is wild now, and besides, they are calling her old name, her human name.
Her tears turn to white whispers. Petals in a snowstorm.
(Originally written for Lily Childs' Friday Prediction)