Rabbit

Tonight, the air is green with clover, hay,

and little clumps of grasses on the breeze,

unsettled dirt, the dusty mysteries

of rabbits tunnelling the dark. They stray

into the meadow, sniff the wind—bouquet

of violets. They hop in twos and threes,

their shadows cotton-tailed. Or else they freeze

when something feathered screeches far away.

They stand like tufted stones. But now the night

goes soft and jasmine-sweet again. A scent

of petals presses to their fur. There’s fruit

to eat. There is the skittering delight

of digging into earth, the sediment

of dreams perfumed with carrot-top and root.

– Jehanne Dubrow