I open the trap, checking my feet to be sure I am standing far enough to the side, not blocking the door, and while I am preoccupied with my feet and the machinery of trap doors, the fox vanishes. It is not a fox. It is a blur of falling leaves, red and gold. A phantom rush of wildness. A mirage of a miracle, pungent and swift. I saw it. I did not see it. I will never see it again.
