We lie low in the sun, flush with the furrows. Day dreaming.
We all love stretching out in our forms, belly dry
with whiskers fanned out.
Ah, but running is when we really stretch. Throw our legs forward and
around, striving to take off.
Why do you think we love the Moon? Our dreams are filled with gliding,
And not touching down. Then, to rest. We envy birds their wings.
Sloping fields are best, with a ridge. We can see the world,
and don’t like surprise visitors.
Our ears give us a proud silhouette. We are a fucking marvel,
Though best lit by the full Harvest moon.
We are mysterious. All or nothing.
We take our lovers when it pleases us, and boxing is our foreplay.
Yes, the joy is in the chase, and the consummation.
We are hares.
© Tom Tide 2016