Running Hare
He keeps airborne, skimming over the grass
defying a specific gravity
of joy or fear.
He throws weight off his back like water.
The sky rolls over coiling flesh
as he hurls a tunnel of space ahead.
Where he has yet to bounce, the grass parts,
the land accommodates his passage -
gives way.
A walleyed rapture, a blind bounding
from the tip of mad whiskers.
A last ripple
while blades of grass reclaim the moment.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2019
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