The orange fox with the bad leg approaches my house as I type. In its mouth dangles a dead squirrel.
Standing next to my backyard fence, the fox seems to consider jumping it – perhaps to enter its enclosure.
Instead, it drops the squirrel into a deep pile of leaves and begins eating it, poking repeatedly into the pile, jaws wide, licking its lips.
It hears a truck engine and retreats – limping – along a path I’ve made through the woods. It will wait awhile, and then return to work on its buried food.