Looking out of the top bedroom window, I was admiring the reds, yellows and golds of the leaves when I spotted a ruddy brown bundle next to the ivy thicket.
There was magic going on in the garden today. About 3 o'clock in the afternoon, the sun had started to slope down and was giving everything that rich warm autumn glow. Looking out of the top bedroom window, I was admiring the reds, yellows and golds of the leaves when I spotted a ruddy brown bundle next to the ivy thicket. There was a fox asleep on the roof of the shed.
It turned its head towards me as I cracked open the casement to take a picture. Not a very good one, I have to admit, I need a telephoto lens. Having decided there was nothing to worry about, it stuck its nose back under its tail and continued to bask in the fading day.
Half an hour later it had gone. Maybe it sensed the approaching rain. When I next looked out it was nowhere to be seen, but the sudden short shower had thrown up a double rainbow.
I well remember my first urban fox. We'd just moved to a little house in Nunhead and there was one trotting up and down the back wall, in broad daylight, examining the gardens, looking for a nice place to rest. Since then I've discovered that they are commonplace, but I still get a thrill to see a (more or less) wild animal at such close quarters.
And I can still remember the dawn of understanding (physics pre-GCE back in the 1970s was it?) when I discovered how a rainbow is made by the variable refraction of different wavelengths in the sun's light passing through and bouncing back from spherical raindrops.
I think I can honestly say that my delight in the natural world comes directly from my ability to find wonder in even the most commonplace phenomena. I still take fascination from something, even though I've seen it before, and understand how it's done. It's still magical.
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