The sun rested on the luscious auburn coat of a sleeping fox. Curled in a ball, snuggled in the bosom of late afternoon. I’d never seen tranquillity quite like it. Birds sang and the quiet wind blew, and there he was, the perfect picture of serenity.
I had to get a photo. There was a fox sleeping in my garden!
I took one with my phone through my murky kitchen window, but I needed to get closer. With my baby quietly playing in the lounge, I turned the key in our back door, slow, steady. I slipped my sandals on. Leaning on the handle, I opened the door and crept outside. I’d barely got one foot on the patio when through the gap in my baby’s green slide, eyes as sharp as a thorn and as vulnerable as a rose stared straight through me. His ears pointed fiercely.
I froze, filled with regret.
Not one second longer, he shot as quick as a bullet from a hunter’s gun down the garden, through the prickly bush, scraping back and forth, clambered up the fence and bolted right over it, never to be seen again.
I broke his serenity. And all I’ve got to show for it is a lousy picture through my murky kitchen window.