Mourning

We found the rabbit dying in the drive,
half of her body crushed. She had nearly made
her way to the cover of a hedge,
drawn by its arc of shadow. Blood in the gravel

marked her slow, deliberate passage,
now dry and pale in the sun. We crouched
in grief and whispered, not daring to touch
a thing so small at so bleak a threshold.

My sister went to the house and carried back
a plate of greens, as if that quiet
and far too well-composed mouth would open.

It didn't; but we saw the nostrils move
with one last twitch of reflex, and the eyes
rolled wide, in terror or astonishment.