It watches the rabbits in the meadows wistfully perhaps. Spending its time on the side of the road, curling up in the sun, waiting for chips, sandwiches or whatever else the tourists may offer. If they happen to pass by and stop and look with surprise at the fox. Mostly the cars pass it by, leaving trails of gasoline, enough for it to be addicted to the smell, if it was a petrol head. But not enough glances. It looks hungry. Ignored. I take its picture, excitedly, hurriedly. It turns away. A camera? That’s all you got? Why don’t you take out some food from the bag, it seems to quiz. I am a bit surprised at this silent conversation and forget to focus properly. There’s a lot those eyes told me in those few minutes. I think I will be haunted by the old fox of San Juan Island. But maybe not more that it feels haunted by people like me. We are the ghosts of each other’s stories. Silent shadows that linger on as if wanting to tell their stories. And only fleetingly, we manage to communicate, in the common language of loss.