At first, the ocher richness of the morn across Eurasia major stepped it's way from black to warm. 

An intimate brass band somewhere in the bone-shard orchestra made sounds resembling a continental anthem for the proven animals having survived the galactic cold of Braifrigogelio, Pleistocene unemployment event.

When risen in their providing walnuts, a stir in their collectivizing under the oaken path, the first stiring of cyconed dirt stirred into a whirlwind of distressed earth. All six colors of carbon flew in humming mumuration until at it's bark and bite slowed to a slender terminus . 

This fight turned out to be a draw. Earth and fox. Mostly vulpine, yellow in her eyes and sorry for little other than the hunger she was born with, a chemical kind of ruddy impresario of earth pieces. 

At once, the right hand nuncio of God, Sempitapanine descended from lilivery high to consult this newcomatrix into the fold of beasts. 

NUNCIO: What is your name?

FOX:  Emissary, no one has named this clod. I can feel my carrot richness yearning for definition and devolution all at-once. It's deciding on being undecided, no name, but a sound, a carrying emptying cakequake of stolen solar powers. Nee or Nay, or something close. What's in a meme? My heems? My children yet unborn to rig the election of Saudi princes and dowager empresses of Scotia Major?