Sunday, June 9, 2013
He was lying under a tree, licking up the shade,
Hello again, Fox, I said.
And hello to you too, said Fox, looking up and not bounding away.
You're not running away? I said.
Well, I've heard of your conversation about us. News travels even among foxes, as you might know or not know.
What conversation do you mean?
Some lady said to you, "The hunt is good for the fox." And you said, "Which fox?"
Yes, I remember. She was huffed.
So you're okay in my book.
Your book! That was in my book, that's the difference between us.
Yes, I agree. You fuss over life with your clever words, mulling and chewing on its meaning, while we just live it.
Could anyone figure it out, to a finality? So why spend so much time trying. You fuss, we live. And he stood, slowly, for he was old now, and ambled away.
When we fuss, is that not living as well? Unless in fussing, I suppose, we block life's potential? But doesn't fussing guide us into knowing life? I think of the squirrel in the back yard with her chatter squeals at the red-tailed hawk, and the parent wren's insistent call to their 4 nestlings to leave the shelter of the porch nest, and their whining response.
Go away! Get out! Come here! Feed me! Do something! Are we ever saying much else to one another?
And what about a fox fussing at the hen house, trying to find a way in. I think he is writing in a book too -
Whiskers full of cobwebs, paw scratches in the sand, blood drops on boards and feathers exploding out into the air. That's quite a story Mr. Fox.
The hunt is good for the fox!