I grew up with a western tongue;
the rhymes it makes are its own.
It sings
the timid rabbit’s gait,
that endless mime
of hide and wait;
dips the wing
of the shrieking owl,
voices the badger’s angry growl,
whispers sage and buffalo grass
to screen from hunters
as they pass,
the exactly this
of what it means.
It gnarls
the cradling underbrush
that pillows the nest
of the darting thrush,
else
where would the rabbit
from the sly fox hide,
except
in a world inside
the world outside.
It honors
this trembling fervor for life,
turns aside its headlong flight
and crafts a haven precious
as night.
I have never thought to make a poem;
I make for the rabbit a place to go home.
–Glen Larum