Yesterday a fox scampered up the driveway and stopped at the snowbank in front of the house. It twisted its head slightly like a robin listening for worms and suddenly dove headfirst into the bank. It emerged with a mouse in its mouth which it ate in two gulps. For five minutes it kept moving and listening along the bank like a stalker in a Tarkovsky film until it realized its luck had run out and trotted off.
A runt born late in the year who didn’t grow fast enough and died of starvation even though the winter has been relatively mild. It was out grazing with the others yesterday and now it’s dead. Makes me want to quote John Donne or see if it’s not really from a scene in a Renaissance painting.
It is a pietà of sorts, not unlike the ones I’ve seen in Berlin, Rome, and Brugge. One stares at it with a heavy heart and can never forget. It was divine, born of a mother, and died for our sins. A moment that crystallizes into eternity.