A young rabbit hops across the yard,

pauses to eat clover. I say “Be careful 

little rabbit; I found one like you 

in my garden not long ago, gone.” 

Cardinals whistle pretty-pretty-pete, 

robins laugh, mourning doves coo,

wablers cheep, wrens warn cheater-

cheater-cheater-cheat. In the background, 

twitters I don’t know, road noises 

from the bypass, the back up warning

from garbage trucks in our hills. 

A fat grey cat pauses, yellow eyes on me,

then ambles off without a rabbit. 

A cup of hot tea and an almond pastry,

and this recorded morning. Then I’ll be off 

to the garden to mulch pale straw 

around the base of tomatoes,

bush beans, red zinnias, red and 

white hollyhocks, peppers and kale— 

before the sun taunts. My body anticipates 

the healthy exhaustion of motion.