A haggard rabbit sits in the shadows of the eaves
of the house, looking out at the snowbound yard
with its marble eye and wondering what we’re all
wondering: how am I supposed to get through this?
Up the street someone has revved a snow blower
and begun chugging down the sidewalk in the dark,
a headlight like that of a locomotive emerging
from a tunnel, its plume of smoke thrown snow.
For a while the world contracts, and we content
ourselves within it. Soon the rabbits will burrow
to the fence and back, while the rest of the yard
forgets. Anyway, who wouldn’t prefer one sure
path to the myriads we entertain but cannot take?
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