The January of golden frosts greyed into a February of relentless cloud, washed around the edges by the kind of frigid sullen drizzle that cuts straight through your bones. Until now, when the sun raced by, and breathed on a very small fox in its flight.
Yes, the tiny vixen of my previous post came back today: to sit in the hedge on a chilled but perfect morning, resting under a high and misty sky. She has acquired the name Vida – life – amongst humans. To the other foxes of my garden, she may be rival, mate or relative.
But to the sun, she is a canvas for art.
And in that, there is the perfection of the wild.
A Walk with Wildlife 
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