In My Field
So I should recount to you
the passing day.
The bandaged wrist of the
server at coffee.
The death of family frail
amid the tubes.
Ending with an ovation to
In the early winter morning
four rabbits sleep in the field I pass
appearing or disappearing like the snow.
Foot traffic drives them out during the day
they crouch amid gravel bed and shrubs
chivvied here, there, somewhere.
That’s where they go but what is it
about this cold dry windswept field
that brings them back?