A small tale in mistiming
Not Always To The Swift
The rabbit I ran over last night was
eaten by a coyote before morning.
Something dies that something lives.
The ground is already wet enough to
have washed away the incident on the
asphalt drive, my car easing down, the
spooked bunny barreling from the green
slope catching tread under the right rear.
It’s funny how you can feel the vibration
for hours after, replaying what you could
have done different, slower, faster, not at
all and, returning, seeing it still lying on its
side splayed out before headlights as if it
were merely asleep but for the brushstroke
of blood faintly swifted from its eary head.
This morning leaves no trace, no epilogue
to the small tale in mistiming, nothing to
remember but the furry lift of a wheel for
the briefest of moments still ringing in the
bones. Pink trumpettes have closed their
horns, petals bowed against the prediction
of rain. Somehow, they know, they know.
A red coyote pads through the mist-flushed
meadow, drowsy, measured, two paws
after the others, its belly round beneath
a tawny sage fringe of fur as if a small
rabbit were curled up asleep inside.
February 15, 2011