January, doing as January does – dressing fence posts with silver, roofing puddles with ice, recasting foxes as a ripple of running flame. The January that I like starts off like this:
And is danced upon by foxes in thick coats. They are busy, always busy, for this is the highpoint of their social calendar – their peak breeding season, and it is a rare vixen who manages to find time alone.
Foxes have what might be called a reluctant social life. In theory, territories are occupied by a mated pair, their cubs, and sometimes adult female cubs from the previous year. In practice, there is a lot of trespassing and quibbling, and a certain percentage – often males – have no permanent home at all. Vagabonds cause consternation amongst territory holders. They can travel absurd distances, often at speed.
But this pair were no trespassers. They trotted across the frozen pasture as if it could rightly be called theirs. I have no doubt that the male’s first priority is the vixen, but when I zoomed in I found that his stomach had not gone untended either.
An old carcass, probably a roe deer. Foxes are fully capable of taking fawns but an adult like this has little to fear in life, at least in countries like England where wolves and lynx are not on hand to assist. In death, scavengers both furred and feathered help themselves. Carrion crows are big brothers of magpies, with less of the humour and a good deal more of the thuggery. I have seen them seriously intimidate foxes with their mobbing.
But there was no violence this morning. Just frost and peace, in that narrow band between soil and sky where all our lives and dramas play out.
A Walk with Wildlife 
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