21.01.2013, 07:55
Last night I took a moment to look out the back of the house in one of my reflective and philosophical moods (Maybe I was just a bit bored). Under street lights Swindon takes on an orange hue, especially with snow on the ground. Everything was still, unnaturally quiet. Even at this time in the early hours you expect to hear something going on. Perhaps the crescendo of a speeding motorbike. Youths competing for shouting rights..Giggles and guffaws of revellers making their unsteady way home. The woosh of cars passing anonymously by.
There was nothing. Just a wintery scene, a still life portrait of Swindon by lamplight. Then I saw the fox down in the yard. He's a regular visitor. I don't know where he hides in daylight but I imagine he's one of the foxes living in the wooded hillsides of the nearby park. That crafty little beggar managed to prowl around my home once or twice this last summer. I see you. He sees me too, looking down at him from my window, and decides to make himself scarce, carrying away his brown paper bag of Kentucky Fried leftovers. Motion vanishes with him and Swindon is frozen still once more.
There was nothing. Just a wintery scene, a still life portrait of Swindon by lamplight. Then I saw the fox down in the yard. He's a regular visitor. I don't know where he hides in daylight but I imagine he's one of the foxes living in the wooded hillsides of the nearby park. That crafty little beggar managed to prowl around my home once or twice this last summer. I see you. He sees me too, looking down at him from my window, and decides to make himself scarce, carrying away his brown paper bag of Kentucky Fried leftovers. Motion vanishes with him and Swindon is frozen still once more.