When a kestrel comes early to sit on our poles and scan the site, it feels like a benediction
The fox trots. Notices me. Stops. Stands, framed by stairs. It looks at me inquisitively. We share a moment. It is early morning. I am no threat as yet. It turns, no hurry, takes cover. We are still. It sneaks a peek through a gap in the leaves to see if I am still there. We are both unconcerned. Reassured I mean no harm, it moves off through the allotments.
The blackbird alarm call had alerted me. Indignant shouting, not song; warning off the predator from its low-hanging nest. I see the fox many mornings now: it’s young, fluffy, bushy-tailed. The patch of scattered pigeon feathers signals its early activity.
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