Eyes Like Amber

She stood halfway across the trail, half hidden by the brush. A fox, lean, rust-coloured, with a white, tipped tail and ears like sharp leaves.

She didn’t startle. Didn’t flee. She just looked at me.

For a moment, neither of us moved. My breath slowed. Something about the gaze, steady, measuring, made me feel like the guest, not the observer. I took one step forward. She tilted her head, curious but calm. Another step, and she turned, not to run, but to walk silently back into the bush, vanishing like smoke.

What the Fox Left Behind

Back at the cottage, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Not because she was rare, but because she didn’t run. Most of us are used to life moving fast, hiding behind noise and speed. But the fox faced me with stillness. That kind of presence is rare in animals and in people.

Now, whenever life feels too loud, I think of that moment in the forest. I remember to be quiet, to pay attention, to meet the world with alert curiosity instead of control.

The fox left nothing behind, no trace, no sound. But she gave me exactly what I needed: a reminder that not all encounters are meant to last. Some are just meant to wake us up.