I got up early to let the dogs out, and Mother, the barn cat, as usual, was waiting for me. I let the chickens out, said good morning to the donkeys, let the dogs out. The birdsong was beautiful, the mist clearing over the big barn, the farm never more restful. The chickens came up the hill a bit, then turned and ran towards the barn. The donkeys turned their heads up the hill, Frieda barked. I saw the fox  half-way up the hill, moving down towards the chickens, and then stopping, noticing me, just staring at me, watching me.

I ran into the house, looked at the camera, looked at the rifle, grabbed the rifle. I can’t sit in the house writing while the fox is looking to kill the chickens and the barn cats, I thought. And this is not a time to take a photo. It is not safe to fire a rifle and take a photo at the same time. And I needed to protect the farm. The farm comes first.

That was the choice. Maria came out, and Maria, who cannot bear to see things killed, turned away and I walked up the hill with the rifle, lay down on the ground. The fox, a beautiful red thing, came out and walked a few yards to my left, towards something – a mole, a mouse, a rabbit. He was limping, probably from a shotgun blast from my neighbor, who was trying to save his cats.  I made the sure the donkeys – they were all in a row, behind me – and the dogs, were all behind me, and that there was nothing but grass and trees in my scope.

I waited until he came into my sights. He paused and looked at me, looked directly at me,  and I fired off one shot from my .22. I don’t know if I hit him or not – it was about 50 yards – but he started and raced to the right. Another shot, and he turned. He turned again and headed for the bottom of the upper pasture gate, and I anticipated that and fired off another shot just ahead of him. Then he was gone, and in a few seconds, the farm was quiet again, pastoral, peaceful. “I didn’t like that,” Maria said. “I hope he isn’t hurt.”

I know, I said, but I hope he was hurt. I hope I got him. The divine lives in the real world, in the real hearts and the farm is a very real place. Life and death are  not dramas, not crises, but life itself, the rythyms of life. I protect the chickens, but I don’t cry for them. They are the simplest creatures in the world, and exist to be eaten, and in the oldest story in the world, the fox wins sometimes, and the farmer wins sometimes. I expect he will be back, and one of these times, sooner or later, I will get him for sure.