Pale thing whirls: car slows on the night-shade tarmac.
What, Fox? What are you doing?
The usual fox has a slink to it, crafty, self-contained, avoidant of traffic.
This one tacks the road, visually entertaining, like watching an unnecessarily angry person shout and fumble-drop things in a supermarket or other inappropriately public place, until one considers the root of the behaviour: what pain, what despair, to sanction this?
One turns an eye inward, then.
Compassion for the tragicomic: imagined as a silvery noise, a coin dropping into an empty dish.
Headlamps bounce light off untidy fur. No evidence of injury. So, what?
Whatever has ruined Fox's day, or minute, or life, it skitters down a hill, muttering, leaves us to baffle.