Bunnies at Dusk

Sometimes, because I’m not quite ready

for the sun to go down, I walk around the yard,

taking in the smells, the musky scent of compost,

the garden, the nightshades, the settling of earth.

In Italy they call it La Passeggiata, when the sun

lowers and the narrow streets fill up

with those who amble or promenade

without purpose or direction, an evening stroll

as a way to signal they are done with all work duties,

just like the popular slow eating movement, this is

a kind of slow walking, slow living, slowing,

downsizing life to the incremental, elemental, singular,

intentional, present, savoring, in the moment.

 

I was not alone.

 

Across the lawn, on a flagstone, was a bunny.

Silent, dark-eyed, in her own Zen-state,

splayed out, her back legs extended, as if without muscle,

a position of repose, surrender, vulnerability, open

to the last warmth of the stone, the sun, soaking

in the final offerings of the day. She and I,

at dusk, feeling the distance near, the soft hush,

end and promise of another day, longing for

the secrets of the night to hold us tight,

envelop us like a heavy dew, unfold

the mysteries of life.