molar

Wild

I'm there already, I've hit my stop and I haven't even had time to finish the crossword. Clutching pen in hand, I attempt to write as I walk; that's just not going to work. Disgusted I scrunch up the paper and resign myself to paying attention to the walk home. The walk home. Un-entertained and unaccompanied.

It's then I catch him out of the corner of my eye, on this ill-lit street, in between the cars. The initial moment my brain registers the movement, I assume it's a cat, so I purse my lips and suck in, forcing out the squeaky noise I make to halt and observe a stranger's pet. But as he stops and my eyes register more than solely movement, I notice he's far too big for a domestic feline, and he stands and looks at me about a metre away. Glossy red fur, perfect in this yellow light, he looks like he doesn't have a flaw on his scavenger's body. Pointy ears and long tail, he's majestic, small and I presume quite young in the years of his species. He's peaceful, he's wary, and my goodness, he is utterly beautiful, framed in the darkness in a moment of peace, of calm. The pest. The urban fox. Nature's beauty in a concrete jungle.