Out comes a fox with a duck in its mouth

They arrive in twos and threes, all drakes: the womenfolk must be sitting on eggs. But they too need to eat, so they will be along later, one supposes.

A sudden flurry upriver shows me three swans in pickaxe formation, their wings half-raised, meringues in battledress.

Two are seeing another off their property, so there will be a nest there, too. They speed down with the current, unbelievably fast, no effort visible as powerful black legs propel them. Then, the invisible boundary having been reached, two sweep their legs up as if shipping oars, and turn back, while the third slows to a glide and carries on. One of the pair stands up and beats its wings, then the other: boundaries defended, they start to feed. I could do with breakfast myself, but that is a couple of hours away yet.

The little huddle of black down the dip on the other side of the footpath separates into individual calves as I pass.

They are used to me now: at first they would all stand up, then only the guard-calf would raise herself, and now they just watch me, knowing I will not stop or do them harm, nor will I feed them.

I can see from bruised grass and splattered dung that they have been running along here since the dew formed, but now they are cosied down in the lee of the wind, chewing cud. It’s a short life but a merry one. Good care, good company and good grass: what more could they need?

Overhead, the first of the herons glides past in grey. The sky is getting light now, and a long thin roll of cloud stretches along the back of the Downs, with silver threads of ice-crystals reaching upwards like a horse’s mane. As I stop to admire it, it flushes magenta, then crimson.

It appears to like that, so dwells on it, and I take a long look at the beauty. ‘Look thy last on all things lovely’ says the poet.

Looking back from the sky, the land seems darker, and there is an animal trotting along in front of me. I think it is a fox, but I am not sure until my eyes adjust, and it obligingly turns sideways. Yes, a dark-coated scruffy smallish fox, trotting along the footpath about forty yards ahead, knowing I am there, and unworried by it. I carry on walking, and see it turn again, one foreleg raised, ears pricked forward, then it runs into the reeds and sedges on the bank. The tide is up and the river is full: I wait for the splash but there is none.

Instead, out comes a fox with a duck in its mouth, glances back at me, springs across the path and into the brambles on the far side.

I have a good idea where it will go now, because there is not much cover here, and this thin strip goes two hundred yards before running into an acre or so of assorted scrub. My path could take me there, but I turn along another route, and leave the fox to its breakfast.

Beside this path there are water voles, and if I am lucky I shall see one. They are surprisingly big compared to other voles, with engaging round faces.

There is one, chewing its breakfast just below the lip of the bank. The fox will take its toll of voles, but today a duck died and a vole lives.

Looking back before the path narrows and I leave the river behind, I see the thin roll of cloud is now pure gold. The small town is waking up, and headlights sweep through the trees where the road bends, taking the first of the traffic. I carry in my mind the picture of a bright-eyed sharp foxy face with a duck in its jaws.