It's

dusk

in a snowy forest and I'm playing with a fox.
It bites my wrist but there is only a dull ache.
I feel that it wants to say sorry but can't. I die.

My inability to confront the old racist failed actor is distracting me. I decide not to tell her about it.

not their contents

13, H, grate

One of the birds shoots out of the tree.