1
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.
2
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.
3
In its place, another
Winter’s flat, white slate will present itself
So bleakly, so . . . blankly—
4
One could almost write
The History of Solitude
Upon it.
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