From the tall brown grass a small brown rabbit appears.
It moves to the middle of the field and sits,
Its ribs clearly visible

even in the faint,

Uneven evening light
Of autumn.


It is the end of November—

Soon, the season’s first fat, wet flakes of snow will fall
And that field, with its rabbits,
Will retreat.


In its place, another
Winter’s flat, white slate will present itself
So bleakly, so . . . blankly


One could almost write
The History of Solitude

Upon it.

Further Reading:

Hopler 3D Book