THE HARE
My tread was heavy. Earth,
grey and greasy, dragged me downwards.
Disquieting, my lack of objection.
The potatoes lifted, corn threshed.
Branch reached to its final leaf.
Life seemed to have abandoned the hills.
It lay coiled within the muscles
of the hare. In his approaching bound,
which, once taken, propelled as by a
tornado, constantly gained speed.
Did an ambush lie in wait?
Fate of the self-contained nomad, routed
up into the constellation of his name.
I prayed, not knowing to whom or what.
No comments:
Post a Comment