This lovely young male fox was in a territorial fight with another - he came off rather worse for wears. Here he is recovering at the wildlife hospital. He is a reminder of Ted Hughes's wonderful poem waiting for inspiration called the Thought Fox. I could certainly do with a fox here as I struggle with the new story I am writing.
Two weeks ago they gave me this jackdaw to look after instead. They reckoned it had bumped its head as it was very quiet. Oddly it took cheese from my hand which is strange for a wild bird but has now come to its senses and refuses all morsels unless they are in a bowl. I've moved it into the shade tunnel now so I can make sure it can fly before I open the doors and let it go. I think - but can't be certain - that the two jackdaws I hand reared last year are the ones who have made a nest on our chimney. I can hear the babies and the parents swipe all the food off the bird table which is nearby before any of the other birds can get it.
Spring is certainly here now - here is Pocket admiring the pussy willow
and again exhausted after his gambling antics. He's suggested to me that we open a casino. Not sure that would go down well up here though we did once want to show films in the barn and call it Flicks in the Sticks.
Scout has settled in well - she is so sweet and loving and feels very at home on the sofa. In spite of her age and her heart she loves to gallop in the Nature Reserve whilst Rocket goes crazy running up and down the hills after his new toy.
Unfortunately Rocket also likes to run up and down chasing the horses. This is a new excitement for him and if he's not careful one of them is going to kick him in the head. I blame the owner - they should have more control over the dog.
Scout in the Nature Reserve. We can only be in there for a few weeks in the year as normally it is filled with sheep which would be much more fun than horses to chase.
The tulips are now opening which is a joy and always a surprise.
The Thought Fox
by Ted Hughes
I imagine this midnight moment's forest:
Something else is alive
Beside the clock's loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.
Through the window I see no star:
Something more near
Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness:
cold, delicately as the dark snow,
A fox's nose touches twig, leaf;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now
Sets neat prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come
Across clearings, an eye,
A widening deepening greenness,
Brilliantly, concentratedly,
Coming about its own business
Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox
It enters the dark hole of the head.
The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.
