A heavy rain fell all through the night and into the morning here in Bethel. The water in the pond slipped over the edge rising to grass top level in the surrounding lawn, not quite a flood but definitely a good dousing.  Enough that I actually looked through the grasses for a possible spillover of fish.

 The fish seem to love drenching rains. They frisk and jump in and out of the large drops hitting the water, a beautiful thing to watch, which is what I was doing on the back porch when I heard the crows. Five or six, I thought and not in one of their usual meeting places. The non-stop bark-like cawing wasn't what they use to speak to one another.  This was the loud, sharp caw they used for policing certain habitues of the valley. In this case, the fox.

After listening to the punk crow calliope for a couple of minutes, I saw the fox dash out of the upper reaches of the steep rhododendron thicket moving at top speed. I was able to see him running along the top of the ridge for about ten long seconds until he simply disappeared. Poof. Truly, he disappeared into a fairy-tale poof.

The crows were quiet. The fish continued to jump. And me? I picked up my cup of tea and went back in the house. Every thing seemed normal enough but somehow the fox had changed the day. It had become  another day entirely and all because for a few brief seconds I saw a small golden creature called fox.