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»And up there sprung like lightning a fox from out of his hole.
His fur was the colour of a starless night, and his eyes like burning coals.

And the men looked up in wonder and the hounds run back to hide,
For the fox, it changed to the Devil himself where he stood on the other side.
And the men, the hounds, the horses went flying back to town,
And hard on their heels come a little black fox, laughing as he ran.«

Heather Dale, Black Fox

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Black Fox Hermitage is the Home of A.T. Blacksmith
who is living in the liminal spaces between myth, metaphor and magic:

Magical Realist.
Anchorite.
Reclaiming Witch.
Jungian Mystic.
Daydreamer.
Nightthinker.
Morningstar-Seeker.
Ghostwriter.
Twinless twin.

***

„Do you find it easy to get drunk on words?“
„So easy that, to tell you the truth, I am seldom perfectly sober.“

– Harriet Vane & Lord Peter Wimsey (A Gaudy Night by Dorothy L. Sayers)