The Fox

Yesterday it was a dark morning’s walk along the lane. All through the night it had been stormy and on the lane,  broken branches lay  thrown about by the wind which was still growling and shaking branches. Although the sky was bright it was dark and subdued on the lane. Soon the rain began – cold, sharp, face needling. But it is times like that when you keep your head lowered and even Rosie, the dog has given up sniffing for squirrels, that you see the small things, the beauty of rosy bramble leaves, glistening in the rain.

Later in the afternoon, Rosie barks, growling at the field. And, there, making his way across the field bordering the lane, a fox. It weaves a path over the uneven ground, no straight line for him as he sniffs, curious. He raises his head, aware of Rosie and changes course towards the top of the field and out of sight. There is something magical about foxes – the Viking dogs as legend would have it, shape shifters, wild and I am so glad to see such beauty.

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