It had been a frosty night, and at dawn I was waiting for the fox. In other days, it was at this smoky hour that I’d seen her from afar, making her way towards the forest. Now, finally, I was in her path, crouching amid leafless shrubs. Bearing the promise of warmth, the light grew lazily over the still valley, in whose depths I could decipher a meandering creek. The whispers of the ripples passed unevenly through the rare ice holes strewn softly into the weight of the snow. Sign of an inclement night, strings of tiny footprints vanished into the woods, crisscrossing the stream. The skyline, blood-red for too long, was turning to yellow. At least the Sun will reward my patience; to feel the gentle caress of sunrise on your face is pure bliss. Almost makes you close your eyes. But the shrubs quivered under a flutter of wings. I turned and discovered my companion: a bullfinch. A rosy ball of down, swollen in the cold.
I caught myself smiling as the first ray touched the breast of this morose little fellow. The thicket around us now alight, I’d forgotten about the frost. The sharing of joy is no buzzword – the light was there for us all.