Buzzing chainsaws echo across the valley, the fierce grinding floats up to the back deck. Today’s weather isn’t great, it’s chilly, overcast–a good day to stay inside and build a fire in the stove. Abruptly, from the corner of my eye, a streak of calico, pursued closely by a streak of yellow. dart across the trees below the deck. I’m still inside, wearing my ratty bathrobe, but brave out anyway on stockinged feet. “They must have raced up into the brush,” I conclude. But, still I wait, hopeful, on my raised viewpoint.
Movement. To my right, in an opening, sits the varmint I believed to have been a doomed cat. A fox, orange and black in coloring, crouches, vigilantly eying the cabin next door. I track his gaze just in time to spy a yellow fox traverse the lot and disappear. The multicolor fellow pumps his legs in anticipation then hunkers down, planning his ambush to continue the game.
Minutes pass and no yellow fox materializes. The calico becomes distracted by the sound of three deer wandering into the hammock. Unconcerned, the little guy resumes sentry duty as the deer nuzzle, browse, and lie down behind him. The fox finally recognizes the moment has passed. He gives up his scheme–stands, stretching, then trots up the mountain, leaving the grass eaters behind.
Chainsaws grind, dogs bark, roaring vehicles follow winding dirt trails, and all indications point to humans prevailing over wildlife. But on this chilly Friday morning the fox and the deer came out to play.