A rabbit with eyes wide and bright
with the light from the car’s full beam
scampers off just as the wheels screech.
Halt.
Daffodils rise up at the pound of its paws,
followed by crocuses, tulips, hyacinths, nerines,
budding and dying just as quick. A few
fading petals and a dusting of pollen
the only trace.
Examine.
Heavy boots race up the path the rabbit has taken,
no flowers rise. No flowers bloom. No flowers die.
And the rabbit is gone, buried beneath the snow
to stay warm, away from the sprinklers
that spread summer’s mirage.
Above ground is cold, just as it always is.
Just as winter is.
Treeshallow Musings 