Day 40
fox
Have you ever noticed how, often when you come across a fox in the wild, it stops and turns toward you instead of away. I have, more than once, encountered a fox on my commute, slowed to a stop and been surprised to see him take a seat there on the shoulder of the road. His eyes look for mine, as if he knows exactly what I am and wants to ensure that I know him, if only for a second. He is in no hurry, and so alert and self-aware that he exudes fearlessness. Clever fox we call him because he is wise enough to know that his fearless gaze will undo much of our aggression, causing us to question our superiority, to pause in our assumptions that the road, because we built it, belongs to us. The fox knows to stand his ground and observe us in such a way that we just might reflect on the absurd idea that he exists for us to see. He asserts our mutual fate. Then he turns and disappears and leaves me idling in the road that no longer seems to be mine. I have neighbors I never see, and he has awakened me to this. I put the car in gear as my mind struggles to regain control, sensing a restlessness in me, reigning in the wild wolf that would follow fox into the deep willows and lose sight of the road.
