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This January morning in 2003 when I put the bird seed out in the feeders, the fresh snow clearly shows the prints of a large four-footed critter that had circled the house during the night and walked away into the woods.
The snow is too dry and soft to show details of the paw print, but the space between the prints indicates something the size of a dog, bobcat, coyote or fox. The pattern also indicates occasional leaps and bounds, making me think that a dog is less likely.
Now it is deep night and snow covers the landscape, luminous under the full moon light. My curtains are drawn for warmth against the frigid air penetrating around the window frame. I am in my bedroom, meditating when I hear a distant sound like -- hmm -- someone shouting? no, dogs barking? no, not that either. The sound calls me out, so I grab my down coat and walk past Bill and Diane watching a video in the living room, pulling my coat on. I open the kitchen door and step out onto the porch.
I am facing the field now, with the woods to my right, curving on over to the waterfall ravine and stretching beyond. The air is cold and fresh with the feel of the snow and the full moon is bright on the white expanse of the field.
I hear the barking clearly now. What a strange sound! It is harsh and monotone, yet sharply insistent. Not a dog, more alien than that. It must be a fox! I have read that foxes bark, but haven't ever heard one before. Barking and barking.
I scan the field, especially at the edge of the woods. I think the barking is coming from there. I don't see any movement. The barking continues.
Suddenly I become aware of the snow mist rising and moving near the porch I stand on, illuminated by the light coming from a nearby window. It is an awesome sight, shifting and breathing, subtly swirling and rising. My attention focusses in on the illumined snow mist.
The fox's barking abruptly takes on a sharp tone, with a little hook to reclaim my attention, and in the fullness of the moment I naturally shift back to attending to the fox.
The fox continues barking. Oh! I can see it now! Or him. He's not barking now. He moves swiftly, fluidly, his every movement proclaiming him wild. He lopes toward the house, toward me, and then curves back into the middle of the field right across from me. At this point, he leaps into the air in a graceful wild ballet of joy, moving like no tame being I've ever seen can move -- free, almost levitating, almost shimmering in and out of this reality, swift, light, fluid and magical.
I am awestruck, silent, amazed, joyous to be sharing this intimate moment of contact. For I feel, I intuitively know, that the fox invited me out here and that some wise part of me heard and knew and responded.
And here I am, rapt upon this magical fox whose silhouette against the snow clearly shows his bushy tail and wild foxy movements. My breath catches in my throat as I watch him lope on down the field, occasionally pausing to bark some more.
I stand out there longer, gazing into the luminous snowy full moon night, listening to the fox's barking grow more distant.
When I return to my room, I find that I can't close the curtains of my window against this magic! They are wide open now so that I can look out the window from my bed whenever I wake during the night. Magic is afoot!
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