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 just for me. I felt fortunate.
The royal hue faded quickly leaving quiet snow and 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 following me. I never saw it.