Two or three years ago a fox used to come to sleep on the compost heap, where it enjoyed the heat created by the fermenting vegetation. Usually its visit was announced by a depression on the surface of the compost, but once I surprised it asleep there. Today I come across a drawing of it in wax crayon which I made at the time. I suspect that the fox is no more of this world but I am pleased to be able to commemorate it on this wet afternoon.
A day for doing odd jobs, like throwing away out of date magazines and brochures, and re-recording the message on the answering machine, which seems too close to gobbledygook for comfort - my own or the few callers, who now make use of it.
It has rained from break of day without stopping, a steady, determined downpour. This afternoon, I stand by the window and watch the drops slide down the pane, as the light fades, and the puddle on the path to the front door spreads and creates a small hazard for visitors.
3 comments:
A marvel of an impression of a fox, would make a lovely tattoo.
Our Kingston home overlooked a field owned and used by a troop of Boy Scouts. One night they had a bonfire and the following morning I looked out to see a fox rolling among the still warm ashes. I can't remember a better example of practising hedonism. There's a certainty of line in the crayon drawing that I previously encountered in a cave painting near (underneath, I suppose) Perigueux.
The fox is beautiful, Joyce said. I agree with Barret Bonden about the quality of a cave painting.
Post a Comment