Fox Hour

Let's rename the golden hour the fox hour.

Look how feral foxes make playthings of parking lots, back gardens, railway lines and fast food restaurants, while we ghost halfway into trees, tethering ourselves to other people's dreams of flight.

Look how the sunlight absorbs their colours out of dismay, jealousy, fright.

I was standing in the middle of our backwoods gravel road, the glacial sky refusing any sentiment of snow. No signs of rain, no clouds or disappearing moon, just pitch pines stretching on and on for miles and a doe laboring on the shoulder, tall grass growing all around her. I’d seen her grazing in the willow tree grove, stomach swelling in twilight, dark eyes flashing at the sound of footfall. Steam was rising from the truck’s red hood. Four thin legs extruded from her. She pushed once more, and finally the fawn slid from her. Where there should have been a flutter of heartbeat, there was stillness. Where I prayed for a tremble of mercy, there was none. My only wish was to not be afraid..

Kate Wylie