Rebecca Kinkead pinterest.com
I saw him
from the corner of my eye
his bushy little cotton`tail
a white shadow on the lawn
on a morning without sun
Can a rabbit smell lettuce?
I wondered
I listened
but he made not a sound
His wiskered cotton`nose
twitching as tho to sneeze
the lolly`pop`eyes abulge
I suddenly thought Was he
listening too?
Or gone tharn
perhaps as a rabbit will do
when he’s taken by surprise
Tharn being akin to comatose
in the parlance of the warren
of undomesticated rabbits
self`taught
But no!
The half`leaf of the lettuce
still protruding from his lips
began to quiver as tho to follow
what he had already swallowed
What I heard was the crunch
A snap
A twang
He was off An arrow shot
from William Tell’s own bow
Three laps around the garden
and out the hole in the fence
before my Yellow Dog or I
even growled
“When we were young, we were told that poetry is about voice . . .
it’s not about voice, it’s about listening . . .” ~ Kathleen Jamie
Poet's Corner 