This winter's rabbit.

Last summer's rabbit (the one that ate all of my kale, my broccoli, my cauliflower, chewed luscious greens into tiny, hard stems; the one that I suspected was coming under the neighbour's fence and which I might have even thrown a pebble at to scare away — had one been handy), the very same rabbit, has been leaving tell-tale tracks in the overnight snow.

This morning, it appeared, coming through the drifts between the houses, and stopped at the bush with the red berries. I put down the dish I was washing and called my son and held him in my arms while we watched the bunny.

imagine a fox

 
A short PSA on the importance and excellence of this short work of nonfiction about imagination and childhood and nature from Brian Doyle.

All things fox catch my eye these days, ever since the glory of those foxes on the side of the road in the golden mornings up in Mishkeegogamang early last winter, and ever since we named our son after them some nine months later.

We were blessed to have seen these foxes, but it is often enough to have been allowed to imagine a brush with wilderness.

Brian Doyle's novel, Mink River, has been ordered, packed up, mailed and delivered, and is now sitting in my "to-be-read" queue. Thanks to Woodbird, for the tip.