A long weekend full of the very best big-little things.
I was leaning against the sink, reading. The kettle ticked as it cooled, my coffee cup empty and waiting. The house was mostly quiet; water trickling in the pipes, and floorboards creaking upstairs. I was downstairs alone. I looked up, through the windows, watching the silver birch sway in the wind and sunlight. A movement in the long grass caught my eye. For a few seconds I thought it was a neighbourhood cat. As I stared I realised, it was not a cat. I stopped breathing.
It was a wild red fox.
Breath held, I watched her, thunderstruck as books from my Queensland childhood came to life, where foxes lived only in the stories I read, not in the world around me. I was muted by the awe of her silent, stealthy beauty.
Nearly eight years in England, and this is the first time I’ve seen a fox in my garden. Her visit was a reminder of the cunning we sometimes all need, to be bold and brave.
To stop digging.
To explore elsewhere.
To outfox fear by just letting ourselves be.