By late morning the copse smelled of moss and warm fur. The foxes had set a folding table of tiny quilts on the stump. A tail would greet the wood, nod to the path, and cover a nose with exactly one curl. Nothing larger was required.
We asked the gardener who rakes the trail. He said the quilts are lent, not given: they return to the stump when the nose has finished being shy. If you bring a human blanket, he added, the path politely refuses to go on.
A rumor went around that the foxes were moving into the benches. By evening it was only this: the benches stayed empty, and the stump had three extra folds ready for anyone whose nose still felt the breeze.