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32 This Late, This Far In the mountains north of Montréal, at that hour when the shadows step out from the blind vines and birch, soft paws in the mud rut, I saw the fox, dirt-dingy, rib-thin, almost a dog except for the sharp face, the tipped tail swept down behind him, and the even iris of his eye that stopped me, not from fear but frozen as he refused to turn aside those shoulders squared round in the road, or shift that wedgehead looming from his fur like an emblem, shine in the shag. It was his mountain, Mont Tremblant, but my hands that shook as the wild light in his look let down a bar across my body, the old gaunt warning that the gates were closed. Stockstill, still silent, we stared until the sun dropped dead and a wind blowing the leaves the wrong way brought me back to myself, carried 33 his cold odor of desolation and damp dens into the new air of evening, air with an edge to it this late in the long summer, this far from the low cities of men. ...

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