I didn’t notice it at first. I was too busy balancing on the rocks. The mud squished between my toes in what would never bother me before, but now made me cringe. I had taken my shoes off to walk in the river again, but it still had April chill. The rocks dug into my soles no matter how hard I tried to pretend.
“There’s a fox,” you said from my side, feet still shoed like when we were eleven. I still couldn’t see it. I could see the black mud of the bank. The peeling sticks stuck on the rocks. The colorful glass shards embedded in the sand. Something orange was under the leaves.
It was a fox, stained brown and on its side. The river slowly brushed against its face but it never flinched. No, its ribs protruded from under its skin, its limbs laid limp and still, its chest was unmoving. I could hear the flies buzzing around but like most things, I couldn’t see them.
“Oh my god, it’s dead,” I stumbled forward with the realization, careful to avoid the black sludge, and took my phone from my pocket.
“What do you think happened?” You stayed back on the bank, clung to the cliffside with your question. I was the fearless one who stripped to my underwear to swim when we found rivers, and climbed the trees in your yard. At least, I was once. Still am, if you count creeping towards dead foxes and not whether or not I could walk barefoot on gravel.
“I don’t know. There’s no blood, so maybe it drowned?” and it’s so big. I’ve had cats catch birds, seen raccoons on the side of the road, even held dying dogs when I worked at a shelter. The dogs were all puppies that fit in my arms and the fox is so big. I think this might be a sign.
My feet are too soft to walk the river’s edge, the trail is too small and overgrown for us to traverse anymore, we haven’t hung out since last Halloween, and there’s a dead fox at our old spot.
***
You noticed it first.
“There’s a fox,” you pointed along the river bank. I couldn’t see anything at first, distracted by the sharp rocks under my soles. There was a muddy orange though, hidden under the leaves.
“It’s dead,” I stepped forward, though you stayed back. Neither of us could take our eyes off the dulled black being brushed by the water.
“What do you think happened?” you made comments from dry land like you always did, still in your hoodie and sneakers.
“I don’t know,” I was the one pretending to still be the adventurous one, when I couldn’t remember the feeling of the river’s edge anymore.
***
You point out the fox on the riverbank I’d never notice, I’m too busy trying to be eleven again. Like this, the fox is dead.