The fact of a fox
– There! Did you see it? – I don’t… think… over by the water? – No no no, down there (look where I’m pointing). OH! It moved again! – I can barely see your hand.
By now the children had returned from the shore and, having been hushed to quiet, came on exaggerated tip-toes to stand behind their parents. What is it? What is it?
– I think it’s a fox or a mink. – A fox! (stage whisper) – What’s a mink? (the fewer the years, the louder the “whisper”) – Quiet, quiet. There’s a little light between those two trees… it must be coming off the water? And every once in a – there!
A flicker in shadow, the faintest touch of color, the form and the finesse.
– I SAW IT!! – Sh! – I’m sure it’s a fox… – A FOX! A FOX! A FOX!
The three danced around as though the fact of the fox, not its presence, was the magic. The parents shrugged, smiled, and watched that flower unfold. The remainder of the night was filled with imagined Fox; in the morning, a daylight search for same, which resulted in grass-stained knees, dew-soaked socks, and sometimes-competing, sometimes-collaborating theories of Where It Went.
Master Hare and Reynard the Fox, by Svenja Sommer @ DeviantArt.com