Daydreams

I had hardly given it much thought lately.
Aside from catching his eyeshine in the beam of my flashlight last week as I rounded the pond late one evening, the fox that I’d hoped to, one day, encounter face to face, has been keeping a low profile.
The tracks that led me, winding and creeping through freshly fallen snow in late February, now, as May’s return of life surges forward, are nearly forgotten. The snowy depressions--drag marks where he’d caught his prey and carried it yards from our wooded creek bank and off through the field—I’d translated in my mind to imagine a male might be hunting for his mate and young, resting somewhere, within a den.
Without ever seeing more than footprints, it remained but a romantic notion in my head.
Fueled by a dream that, hidden from harm, a sweet family of foxes was growing.



In the stillness of a new day’s dawning--dreams really do come true.

Apologies for the fuzzy images.
It was barely daylight, and I wanted be sure to keep my distance and not spook them with a flash.

Wild Saturday Night

Sometimes I scare myself, walking in the dark around the pond.
At night, it becomes a very different place, filled with different sounds,
illuminated only by the moon—and my flashlight.

Back in a shallow corner, the toads are trilling again. I can see their small bodies in the distance, sitting on clumps of algae—projecting their songs across the water into the night.


And, at the shoreline, a pair of steady white eyes that are caught in the beam of my light, as I scan the surface. Probably deer, unsure if they should bound into the safety of the woods--for I know they drink at this shallow, and follow the many prints they leave on these trails.

The water is already lower than I had hoped, for April. Spring rains that filled it to bursting a few weeks ago, have already found their way to a muskrat hole and emptied a foot of depth. But the edge areas are walkable now, and nighttime hides my stalking figure from what lives here.

They seem to have no fear—at least of me—as they summon others of their kind. American toads.


Or is it, that the force that has drawn them from land to this water is stronger than fear.
I dim my light, and unseen figures raise their voices, joining the appeal.


A splash...and a swirl startle me.
Probably, the muskrat, who crosses these shallows underwater, is equally alarmed--
surprised to see my large spotted boots so close to her watery front door.
Little ripples disturb the smooth surface,
as last year's bullfrog tadpoles
and small fish scurry past my toes.



In the reflected light of the full moon, I can see now that the water beside me has been interrupted -- a large mass of algae protruding above the surface. Almost as if I wasn't standing there at all, a huge snapping turtle, barely identifiable beneath her mossy shell, drifts closer--her feeding, the swirling I thought to be the muskrat.
This enormous turtle, that, in daylight, plunges beneath the surface when I approach from yards away, now, calmly searches the muck around my boot for dinner--or perhaps, intends to snag a distracted toad.


An unusual sound, muffled and throaty, draws my eyes to the opposite bank. I watch with my light as she leaves, the dry grass rustling as her small form moves away from the pond toward the oak woods.
She pauses often to look back at me as she trots off—
her glowing eyes, amber.

Animals of the night have eyes that have a mirror-like surface, the tapetum lucidum, which intensifies what little light there is available. When a flashlight or headlight of a vehicle reflects off this surface, the eyeshine of a characteristic color is sometimes seen.

Hunter II

I had started walking Thursday morning, a light covering of snow, added to the previous day’s remainder, offering another chance at a peek into the activities of a dark night, unseen by me.
The tracks were, again, there—stepping from the woods, across the field—passing through fences as if they weren’t there, in his course to the hunting grounds of the far woods. I checked them only briefly—it was the small-footed canine, the red or gray fox--and walked on. (pictures 1&2)

My path circled around the empty field, where fallen grasses and goldenrod spikes interrupt the whiteness, making small tracks difficult to distinguish from vole holes and dark icy patches of pooled water on the uneven surface. I hadn’t intended to give his tracks another thought, until I came upon the unusual drag markings crossing the trail where it enters the woods.
Something traveling low to the ground would leave such a depression in the snow, though the footprints were just to one side—indicating, perhaps, one being dragged by another. Whatever had moved through these woods, I had not seen before.
I was barely able to determine the direction from which this strangely moving being had come. Cold morning air and light flakes had quickly filled all but a few toenail marks. Yet, it was the fox again—this time, dragging something from the woods. (picture 6)

I followed, eagerly hoping to find some scene with answers to the questions brewing within. Through the undergrowth, branches stealing my hat with their long, bare fingers, I crept backward to the source, the point where this curious walking had begun.
And found a depressed area in the snow beneath a large tree, just beyond the creek.
Whatever he had taken there, he took swiftly, as there was little commotion and barely a hair, aside from some darkened prints, as a clue. (picture 3)

I wondered how far he had walked with his find, and where he had taken it for safe keeping, as foxes sometimes cache food for later times of need.
I followed again, his unbroken trail--across a small creek (4), through a dense stand of firs (5), through the blackberry brambles (7) and out into the open air of the field surrounding the big pond (8)--wishing I, too, had his small stature with dense fur and tapered face, his agility--protection from the snags and tears of this “edge” habitat foxes love.

Twice, it appeared, he wished to cross the pond and turned back, perhaps deciding the refrozen ice not safe for his weight. Then, finally setting his prize down and pausing beneath the dock—the first break in a continuous trail of over 500 feet. The muskrat had been out walking last night, too—his tail drag, a thin dark line in a trail of similar width. (pictures 9, 10 &11)

Beyond the dock, the fox’s prints are the only trail on the icy surface. (picture 12) His prey, not yet eaten, probably carried higher, now, as he proceeded toward home, through the field beyond the pond, back to the oak woods from where this night’s hunt began. (pictures 13, 14&15)
I followed to the base of a large fallen tree--a dry hollow in the 2-foot diameter, soft within with crumbles of decay, a dark chamber deeply buried.

The thought of having such a beautiful animal walking this small tract of woods, to have given them wild spaces to use as they need and the thrill of knowing without seeing, stopped me there.
I imagine a den of kits, mother nursing them and eating what her mate has brought from his night’s hunt.
Growing strong and wild.
Unseen.

My Spring reward is found here.

Hunter I

The covering of soft snow has stayed with us all week.
Yesterday's tracks becoming whispers, as they are muffled by a light, fresh blanket--bold, new trails left in their place. Nighttime's stories for sunrise readers.

This morning's sun on a clean white world was the cheer much needed.
In the story of the tracks--the promise of spring.

Picture 1

Picture 2

Picture 3

Picture 4

Picture 5

Picture 6

Picture 7

Picture 8

Picture 9

Picture 10

Picture 11

Picture 12

Picture 13

Picture 14

Picture 15


These pictures capture the activities of a fox in our fields and woods last night.
The story they tell and the promise they reveal is yours, if you want to read them. I've tried to shadow the photos in order to accentuate the tracks--images enlarge if you click on them. Look closely....there's a happy ending!

(Read the accompanying words, here.)

Icy morn..the last

I recall pushing my girls out the back door on days like this.
Days that you know are short-lived.
Days that, even though we may long for a change from them, will be wished for at a later date.
The days you wish to remember--blue skies, perfect snowflakes and crisp air.

The sun is peeking in the open windows of the old barn.
The goats are warm inside, eating their breakfast of sweet grain and hay--the pasture low and beneath snow.


I walked around the fencing, following the tracks left in the light snow cover. The night must have been alive with rabbits, dancing in the moonlight.
Their tracks are everywhere--bounding across the open spaces, stepping into the woods.

They respect the fences.

These tracks do not--stepping right through, walking across, and out the other side.
Perhaps a fox? Dog-like, but not a bother to the goats--nothing young or weak.
A coyote would have been different--but the field fence is too small for him to pass through.



I knelt down in the barely-there snow.
And saved images of snowflakes for August's swelter.