I see the half-grown rabbit
when I mow.
It darts in and out
of the Iris no longer in bloom,
gone the colors, purple or white.
The race has been a game
Last night, I look out and see
it, content in my late garden, tame
beneath the neighbor’s streetlight,
feasting. Young plants meet their doom.
It does no good for me to shout
from the open kitchen window.
Tomorrow, I will replant, for that rabbit
to enjoy, no longer cute like it was, darting through Iris.