The fox stalked across the field in the late afternoon light
A ragged and thread bare specimen, ravaged from the cruel cold winter
That lengthened into February
He stops looks round searchingly
Yet distracted, somehow fidgeting with his own dire experience
His own state of affairs
My mother points out the starlings swooping above him as they ready to roost
Among the levels further down along the reeds
The fox moves sleekly, slinking like a chain of bones concertinaing
And then squats to lay his scent or shit
I have almost lost interest as he becomes the grey of sky, the brown and pale yellows of winter hedgerows
May be he was the fox that ate our chickens I say to my mother
All those years ago
He is an intruder, yet somehow respected for his cleverness despite this. And I feel somehow very safe and sanitized in this my mother’s house but seeing him also vulnerable. Like seeing a thief from behind the confines of a ‘CCTV’ camera – catching him in the act. It is the interest in his survival, his spirit and hut spa. Confidence in wildness, somehow he will always be there, in the back of your mind.
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