There's A Rabbit in the Yard

There’s a rabbit in the yard.
Where it came from, I don’t know.
With its brown, peppered fur and
buttonish, searching eyes,
it comes toward me,
intent on salvation.

I’d been watching the electric-winged blue jay
as it boldly gulped the berries
of the invasive honeysuckle,
when a sudden rustle caught me.

The rabbit appeared,
agitated and (perhaps) a bit bleary-eyed,
ousted from its place among things.
Whatever instinct is in a rabbit to survive
brought it to my feet, somehow knowing
that I posed no threat.

Stunned, I look at the rabbit’s eyes,
trying to understand their language
coming up only with
the frustration of desperate immigrants.

Motherly nature makes me want to hold it,
to make it my passive child,
like those people who try to make
chimpanzees pets without respecting their
temperament or spirit.

Another rustle, this one more threatening.
The rabbit and I are still,
blood stopped and cool,
adrenaline gearing us toward some sort of action.
The world is about to crack, we think,
it’s about to swallow us whole.

Then, Molly, my affable, mahogany retriever,
emerges smoothly from the tangle of branches,
sniffing wildly, ears up, back straight.

I know her, I think. She is soft, she is meek.
This dog, who cowers under curtains,
without a snarl of ego, is harmless.

The rabbit eyes me: Oh, you think so?

Molly eyes me: Oh, you think so?

I know nothing.

Good girl, Molly! No, Molly!

She advances, gingerly at first, but
her pace quickens.
In this moment, I do not exist to her, nor to the rabbit.
This is not about me.

Good girl, Molly! No, Molly!

It is not hatred; it is not anger.
It is an unconscious pull, an embedded response.

The rabbit flies,
Molly behind it,
though in an agonizing twist of seconds her swiftness dies.
She decides to let the rabbit shrink behind the old shed,
the one that looks like an abandoned, Irish cottage,
before retreating and prancing toward me.

Good girl, Molly!

The massacre is stopped before the teeth are bared,
and I am struck by how easy it is
for the dog to retreat,
taking tacit victory with her
without the brilliance of battle.

Her tail is not tucked in.
She dons no savage pride.
The rabbit was fun to chase,
but it’s over, for now.

There’s a rabbit in the yard.
There is a dog at my feet.
The blue jay is back to gluttony in the branches.