A fox sits, then runs. From under a flickering street light until its tail fades into darkness.

But a London fox. Not Mary Oliver's, by a pond/snow/orchard, finding music, opening like a flower.
A feral fox, by potted plants/garages/the bins/a bollard, to the inner-city hum, opening like discarded paper in a gust. Still with magic, but with a different vibe. And when it leaves, it isn't into the woods, it's to idon'tknowhere. Close enough to dine on human waste, far enough to sleep undisturbed.

made on 27/11/21 with a smartphone after visiting Tom's pond sounds.
downloadable here