The Shadow

The groundhog pokes its nose out from its hole.
It sniffs the air and smells death, millions of times over.
Burning ash in all directions.
Was it an asteroid?
Was it a nuclear war?
To the groundhog, it doesn’t know. Or care.
It doesn’t matter whether it sees its shadow or if there will be six more weeks of winter.
There will be plenty to forage on when the burning storm dies down. Plenty of water in cracked pipes and cisterns to drink.
Unless there are survivors.
Then, it will be hunted.
It goes back into its hole to hide.