A morning walk in the quiet
street; I rounded a curve,
and the rabbit sat, in a space of its own,
on a sloping lawn gone wild at the edges,
its ears translucent red in the early sun;
each umbel of Queen Anne’s Lace
pointed in brilliance,
the grasses whiskered with light.
The rabbit held quite still: staring, unafraid,
as if we were together in the place
where every grass-blade always shines like that.



Christine Whittemore