Each year I admire her peonies,
the lady around the corner who stops
us now on our evening jaunt – boys
pedaling bikes, my husband and I 
trailing on foot with the dog. 

Tonight they are still buds, 
fat green fists on the cusp of losing
their grip around pink petals 
aching to burst from within. But the bed
beside them, she says, holds a nest.

Beneath a peeled-back clump of dirt
and dead leaf hide three baby bunnies
tucked together tight, one soft mass
of umber fur and astonished eyes
blinking wide in the stark new light.