Wednesday, 19 May 2010
The Salt Pit Hares
The three gorgeous hares, brothers, larking in the lush spring grass, their black-tipped ears bobbing as they chase, pouncing and feinting. But they keep their eyes roving, ever wary. They spot us swishing through their field, the carefree dog and I. We are not like them; we have nothing to fear. They stretch up on hind legs to get a better look. Then they dive down into the grass to compare notes, to reassure each other, and hope that we’ll go away. They are safe: the dog trots on his lead and I never could run that fast, but we keep coming, so, suddenly, they switch off their bravery and flee off across their meadow. They pause on the brow to look back. We have reached the stile. I imagine they are shouting hare-ish insults at our retreat. We climb the stile and leave them to get on with being hares in the springtime in a world of fresh grass.