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