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.