The Winter Fox

The trees in the woods are ice covered and dusted with snow. The ground is also glassy as a frozen result of winter drizzle and cold temps. The world around me glistens like fine crystal with a powdered sugar frosting upon it. The sparkling white surrounding me makes it appear as though I’m caught in a snow globe that’s just waiting to be shaken. I hesitate to move and disturb this perfect picture of winter wonder. As I lean against an ice bound oak tree, only the fog of my breath rising from under my hat would indicate my presence.

It is perhaps my stillness that allows me to hear a steady tic, tic, tic of movement off to my left. I clear my ears to better hear, and focus on the area of sound. Soon the disturber-of-the quiet comes into view. It is tsu-la u-wo-di-ge, a red fox, that meanders down from the rise above the creek. His red fur stands out like a blazing fire against the glassy surface under his black socked feet. He stops momentarily and puts his black nose to the wind. Something, probably me, has him a little cautious. After a few seconds though, he seems satisfied that there is no danger, and moves down to the creek.

As I watch him walk, I marvel at the length of his red, bushy, white tipped tale. Its almost as long as the rest of his entire body. The tail aids him in running I’ve been told. And maybe, like a squirrel, that tail wrapped around him when he lies down, provides some comfort on these cold winter days and nights.

The fox moves to the creek and walks to a break in the snow covered ice. The water runs cold and clear as it gurgles and bubbles along a short path, then disappears under the ice again. My long-tailed friend raises his nose again and looks around, then bows his head to the cold clear offering from the creek, and drinks thirstily. After a moment of slaking his thirst, the fox licks his whiskers with his long tongue, then retreats back into the deeper woods, perhaps in search of a mouse for lunch. Better a mouse than one of my chickens, I think , as I watch him melt away among the trees and frozen undergrowth.

There has been a fox near the hen house many times at the Chicken Ranch. Once, my oldest grandson, Kirkland, looked out toward the cornfield and observed a fox just sitting at the edge of the field watching him. It was as though he was casing the place to see how to get past the dog and into the chicken pen sometime. It wasn’t until Kirkland yelled at him that the fox stood and slowly walked away.

Just a few nights ago, I happened to look out the kitchen window at the heavy snowfall, and notice another of the red/gray predators in the moonlight, trotting happily down the lane by the barn, then out to the pasture and away. We have lost a few hens over the years to these slender little speed demons. The dogs usually do a good job of keeping them at bay, however.

I don’t mind the foxes, really, as I long as I don’t lose too many egg layers to them. It would be a sad world to live in if we had none of mother natures offspring to coexist with. The creatures around the Chicken Ranch are a reminder to me of the beauty of Gods plan. The wildlife and earth around us is all one beautifully sculpted result of the Creator. Humans are the only part of His creation that seems to have a hard time fitting in to His plan. All of the rest of Nature fulfills what He intended as its purpose. Man does his best at times to go against the perfect order of things, and mottle them up. I want to be a better steward of the land, and remember that all of nature, all men, are under his feet. There is a purpose for everything under Heaven, even a hungry fox wanting chicken for dinner.

I’ll hike a bit more and watch the color of birds ornament the glacial looking trees and bushes. I’ll observe the deer, gracefully moving like shadows, out of the draws and down to the creeks. I’ll enjoy the piercing cry of the red tailed hawk, as he circles on the wind in search of a meal. And who knows, I may see that fox again, heading southwest to a hen house full of temptation, that rests on a little patch of earth that I call home.