The rabbits’ downy tail marks them
as one of nature’s grass digesters,
the ones who hang sag-necked from foxes’ jaws
that lollop when attempting speed.
The ones whose side-face eyes
are trying to see both sides of the horizon,
that plug away inches from the earth
and never thought to lick warm blood.
Animals the colour of the underbrush
whose white butts flash in Morse distress,
strobe lights as they start to run,
saying I’m here! Dinner! Seeming stupid,
until the patches of the hill you never saw
were breathing move as one, unraveling
the ground ahead in a white-capped rush.
unpublished poem, © Holly Hopkins 2019, used by permission of the author