Photo Source: Wikimedia Commons Out of the black of the night, the fox cries its devilish scream. Once, when there were dark places, ancient woodlands formed of hard oak with deep roots, peasants thought the sounds were witches conducting unholy and unspeakable acts.  Those places are long gone now, tarmacked over with grey concrete and illuminated with streetlights that tear away the shroud that once clothed the night.   It’s three in the morning. Jesus died at three in the afternoon. They...