Intruder
Sept 27 2016


The rabbits have turned.
Patches of white, in their mottled coats,
too soon
for the first snow’s camouflage.

They are out at night
under cover of dark.
Acutely attuned to fox,
who are silky in fall
and stalk on mincing paws,
ears twitching, tails low.
To goggle-eyed owls,
who simply materialize
all feathery swish, and grappling claws.

But my nocturnal threat
is unknowable.
As if aliens
had descended in a blaze of light,
gleaming discs
with that high unearthly hum.

On the narrow dirt road
that cuts through the forest
he is caught in my high-beams.
Racing ahead, he darts frantically
pin-balling side-to-side;
exhausting the speed
prey depends upon.

The dog is a feral hunter,
barking madly, nose against the glass.
While I idle down
as guilty as any intruder,
willing him into the trees
with focused calming thoughts.

Primal fear.
A small animal’s
racing heart.



There are a lot of rabbits this year. Often, as I drive down my long narrow lane at night, they are caught in my lights:  utterly confused, running in fear. Naturally, I feel guilty to cause such distress, to burn up their precious reserves. But it seems to take forever until they wise up:  fleeing the open road, and escaping into dark impenetrable woods.

It’s a simple poem:  descriptive, narrative, particular. But it has a certain universality, as well, reiterating one of my recurring themes:  man in nature, offending against the natural order of things.