Toads croak and the crickets creak.
In the dead of night, a rabbit sits still
in the middle of the grass, staring
at the poor lamppost taking the place
of the truant moon. In his brazen
stillness, he must be testing out what
death feels like, how motion abandons
body and breath escapes soul.
From the terrace, I rest my elbows
on the balcony and the rabbit turns
to look up at me. He glares at my face
as if I were God. I shake my head
almost apologetically: No, I’m not
who you think I am. So I descend
the stairs to level with him. Under
the light: the full glory of my face.
Face-to-face, I looking down and him
looking up, we share the hefty
pleasure of immobility, like it were
a gift of absolution rationed in infinite
seconds. Just as I let out a slight breath
of wonder, he scurries off to the dark.
And I’m left standing in the grass,
flustered under the sham of a moon.
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