‘…this evening, on the seams of Stobhill hospital, where thinly-veiled veneer yields to the wild, I saw a fox—her amber eyes holding mine for a hundred years or more, even now it escapes me—the detail of time. I cannot remember. I wasn’t breathing. after fifteen seconds, she tip-tip-tipped her tail, slow-dancing into the undergrowth, and i have this, to share space with the warm body of a fox—something to soften the edges of a day, and two days, and even three. something soft and enthralling. as I finally fall headlong into sleep, the back-and-forth of two owls stitched into the night sky, reminding each other where to look—where to swoop low for what they are about to receive. and all of nature said, amen.’

© Liezel Graham 2021.

{Image by Sasha Panarin}