Page 54 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. III #12

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leverets
Huddled in a form, midfield,
their only protection from hawk and fox is immobility and earth brown fur. Wide eyes can see the approach
of their doe or death equally well.
They are too small yet to learn how to dodge and run;
how to make their hearts pump power into legs, stretched
to launch the arrow of precarious life.
The hare bursts from the grass, runs, switchback, tangling her scent trail. The form is not a nest;
she suckles them sitting up.
Ear tips twitch. Nose dilates.
It may be a distant buzzard’s call;
the stink of a vixen in the wind.
The leverets are still, perhaps they sleep, briefly reassured and full.
She will go now, before they wake,
to run before the talon, tooth and wheel.
kate iNNes