The Fox was making it way down the field, brown but not very quick. It was walking slowly beside one of the rows of straw depositied by the combine and awaiting the binder to shovel it up and convert it into bales. The Fox's head was turned to scrutinise the loosely piled straw, ears pricked forward and, I presumed, eyes focused and nose whiffling, in the hope of finding something edible lurking within.