Vigilance
May 12 2013


The rabbits have turned.
Dun-coloured fur,
invisible
in the shrivelled grass,
nibbling
on thinly nourishing straw.

Concealed by shade
a crust of snow persists;
white, in a murky thaw

as if at odds with the world.

Startled, darting off
he stands on top,

frozen, for a moment

reconnoitering;
a skittish creature's
fleeting pause.
Ears twitching, head cocked
he has the startled look of prey
who are never safe.
Even worse, betrayed
by clever camouflage.

I feel the shadow
of the bird of prey,
the thrum

of powerful wings

displacing air.
As if my own disguise
were just as transparent,
the penetrating glare
of an in-between world
where I feel as out-of-place

out of sync.

Then he dashes off
swiftly lost
in last year's fallow field.
A creature of flight

who depends on vigilance, and speed,

the unreliable art

of concealment.

And almost overnight, it seems
the grass is green
again.