The morning provides a proper coronation at the usual spot while a jester in the guise of a fox watches from the bushes. What does the fox say?
Shorter days take away the golden mist mornings¹ of earlier weeks leaving only the light of Albertsons lamp posts for the mid-winter commute. Today I was uplifted in that half-light by a “freshly fallen, silent shroud of snow”² transforming the solitary ride into something ethereal.
Some trick of pre-dawn light briefly imbued the moment with an extraordinary mauve. There was no one else, nothing moving, the grand, purple performance for me alone, it seemed.
The royal hue faded quickly leaving quiet snow and dark water where summer would see flocks of colorful inflatables bearing shouts and peals of laughter downriver.
A stranger was standing at my bike when I returned from the small patch of woods I’d entered along the river bank. “Did you get it?” he asked, slightly surprised at my approach from the brush. When I wasn’t sure what he meant, he explained a fluffy red fox had been shadowing me amidst the trees.