The foxes are at it again.

Today’s rawky afternoon has given way at last to an evening sky of pink and baby blue. The mephitic vapours that hung around the trees all afternoon, idle and fugacious, have retreated to the bottom of the valley where they lie along the course of the river like nicotine-stained whiskers, making walking along the river bank somewhat perilous and best avoided.

From the dense bank of fog the croak of wlatsome looking toads becomes a chorus. Perhaps the yellowed curtain has lulled them into a false sense of security, leading them to assume that they are invisible to any creature sufficiently undiscerning who may wish to predate upon them. I can’t think who. Do herons eat toads? But the pink and blue of the sky will not endure for long. The gathering dusk will soon obliterate the colourful day’s end with deepening shades of gray, and silence will once more stalk the fields and forest till foxes start copulating after midnight as is their noisy wont.