A red fox, known always moving, stripes in the bushes and slips over the steps to sit in front of me. It stares thin and narrow cleaning its black paws. Swift lash of tongue. She lowers her head to the ground and pauses for an exaggerated moment taking two breathes before turning and vanishing into the bushes. And now, as I bask in the heat of a red autumn wash, I hear a faint call warping through the trees – the integral yelp of an empty stomach.