Refuge

( a 100 word portrait)

The wind pushed hard, forcing the dark, wet clouds deeper into the valley. The temperature had dropped 15 degrees in the past hour, making good on the promise of a bone-chilling afternoon, and bitterly cold night. The air had taken on the crisp, nose-numbing characteristic associated with winter’s first snow.

The doe pushed the surviving twin against the wind, towards cover in a berry thicket. Her soft grunts and mews urged the gaunt, exhausted fawn forward.

She nosed the baby deeper into the vines, blinking away the first white flakes. Finally, she rested, the fawn tucked closely to her side.