From the You Cannot Make This Sh** Up Category.

 
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From the You Cannot Make This Sh** Up Category.

This morning all I can think is 'I'd love to see that balletic fox I encountered a couple of days ago again'. I know the faultiness of returning this way. Things never repeat themselves but still that crone-voiced muse insists, Go. I park my car and walk, camera ready this time. The field is quiet but for the flitting of all the songbirds I am displacing. The sun rises above the harbor but beneath the bridge from this vantage.
No fox, of course.
I return to my car but at the foot of the fox path left from the other day I find this.
I kid you not.
A dog toy in the shape of a....fox.
Complete with eviscerated squeaker.

The scene transforms. You would see a crazy woman bent over at first light by the river...examining her fox. Literally laughing out loud. Literally. She looks around to see if god is somehow hidden behind a bush just waiting for the moment.

Oh, Lord, you do have such a great sense of humor.
I'll be more specific next time.

It wasn't one of those romantic and expectation rich Gucci mornings with hallelujah uplift clouds...

 
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It wasn't one of those romantic and expectation rich Gucci mornings with hallelujah uplift clouds drenching us mortals in celestial light. Nah, it was more of a no nonsense Dickies dawn. Dark. Growing lighter. Sun rises above the horizon. Done.
I pulled into a parking lot close to the bridge spanning the Fore River deciding on next locations.
That's when I saw the head of a woodchuck pop up from the tall grass and my thought was 'Damn that's the tallest woodchuck Ive ever seen.'
Only the fuzzy woodchuck head turns out to be the tail end of a sprightly young fox and it follows the lithe body and small pointed head as it arcs its body above the grass and pounces down. Again and again.
I am like a kid at the candy store.
I am someone who was just given front row tickets to my favorite performer. That fox ballet alters something inside me. Invokes something. Not hope, that word is laden with too much expectation. Maybe deep contentment? But that sounds misleading too. Maybe gratitude? If I die in the next moment I go with a gift I can not imagine ever being able to reciprocate.
I assemble my camera zoom lens, an awkward process for me at best with one eye on the fox as it heads away. Silently.
I leave my car with the camera and can see the foxs' exit path in the wet grass. Following that path I find a foot path with a heavier wear to it than that of the fox. I follow and come upon you like this.
A lashing together of all that was falling apart.
Heron flys over head to the east. The osprey follows. White egret, the first I have seen this season takes a left to the west.