There’s a winter sun playing around my garden, no wind, bright air and a fine cold that wraps you round, tingles your toes. He’s looking straight at me, pausing thoughtfully, a paw raised to sprint or just walk away, turn his back on my familiar figure. We’ve met before—happy New Year fox. His raised paw touches the ground, for a second we exchange greetings, then he’s off on some urban mission. Slower, I’m left behind, staring at the empty space. I imagine him, bright eyed, fox eyed slipping through on his mission to survive—we’re far too slow and I envy him that speed, the way he can dash through a bush. That should be me. At night he’ll be hunting in the small urban wood my bedroom window overlooks or I can see him, a fantasy fox driving a taxi when dusk turns a deep blue, ploughing the streets of London in clapped out old car, an uber fox.