One early morning last week, just before sunrise, I heard a strange sound as if someone was yelling in intervals. At first, I thought it was a cry for help, and then I thought, after all, it wasn’t the sound of a person.

I walked to the dining room window, and then I looked out to the street. Nothing to the right. Nothing straight ahead toward my neighbor’s house, and then I saw a sudden movement to the left beyond some bushes. The wind? A loose piece of rust-colored paper rolling onto the street? It was a fox, a red fox with his famous tail. It looked to its left and right and then, like an athlete, it ran along the road in a sudden dash, past the bushes, past my neighbor’s house, and then it ran past my window. I expected it to stop for a moment and wave hello.

I always feel sorry for foxes. They do eat berries, but they depend mostly on meat: mice, squirrels, birds and worms. It must be easy being a rabbit. It doesn’t have to work hard to find grass or clover, even twigs, bark, flowers and shrubs. But a fox has to hunt and hope there will be a meal just beyond the next rock or next patch of woods.

The quick visit of the fox running in the neighborhood has stayed with me these last few days: the movement of its tail, the way its legs moved in a gallop, the earth color of its fur. We preserve the image of things in our private memoirs, quick moments like the visit from the fox, and we also preserve forever moments: our wedding days, vacations, the memory of our children’s first day of school, the memory of the homes where we grew up.

One of the great things about our culture is that we have established our collective public memories in our museums: works of art, dinosaur skeletons, pottery, Lincoln’s hat, the Wright Brothers’ plane.

The Dallas Museum of Art has a painting by Gustave Courbet, one of the most influential French artists from the 19th century. Courbet led the realism movement, abandoning the romantic painters and their idolized notion of the world. Courbet painted what we see and expected us to come away with our own sense of meaning from the snapshot of reality.

When you visit the Dallas Museum of Art, look for Courbet’s Fox in the Snow. As you look at the painting you might feel the cold air in your imagination. You will get to see the hungry animal devouring a mouse. There is nothing romantic about that image. It is an unsentimental moment of reality, and yet in that reality, there is beauty. There is always hidden beauty in what we see in our ordinary days.

According to the Texas Parks and Wildlife Department, “the entire red fox population of Central Texas probably descended from 40 foxes released between 1890 and 1895 near Waco.”

It seems as if one is hanging in the museum in Dallas.

In Paris on Dec. 25, 1861, Courbet wrote a Realist Manifesto, and in it, he wrote, “The beautiful is in nature, and it is encountered under the most diverse forms of reality. Once it is found it belongs to art, or rather to the artist who discovers it.” And, like Courbet’s fox, it also belongs to our collective encounters thanks to the DMA.

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