Green woodpeckers are common in France. But not so common that I’ve been able to see one in the ten days that I have been here. And I want to see one. Something about woodpeckers I find fascinating, and the names help. When I saw a three toed woodpecker (really, three toes?) in Maine, I was thrilled. When this past Christmas Peter and I saw a black woodpecker in the forest of Fontainbleau outside of Paris it was the highlight of the trip (not, as some might think, visiting Notre Dame…). So a green woodpecker was my goal for the morning as I rose at 6—the world still dark and quiet—and was out before seven. I walked south out of town, a winter wren singing to me from a bush that has taken over the courtyard of the abandoned house that once belonged to Francine. In the freshly cut field to one side I see a fox trotting my way.  It’s tail is thick, a dark red, lined with brown. It doesn’t see me, so I stand still, and watch. I can tell what route it intends to take, out of the field, across the road and into the corn. So I pull out my camera and wait until it is mid-road. As I snap the photo, he becomes aware I am there, and picks up his pace as he moves into the corn and vanishes so fast.