The young foxes have grown. One rolls on its back on the grass beneath the trees and street lights in the early hours, circled warily by another. A third arrives suddenly and runs through their invisible circle in a straight line.
In Eric Rohmer’s film, Ma Nuit Chez Maude, two people quite suddenly ensnared by the idea of love, talk urgently on a hillside, oblivious to the fantastic view behind them of snow falling on the city of Clermont.
Walking along a dry path in the wood at night, one hears a soft slow crescendo of summer rain approaching through the trees.
