Wishing to See

My father-in-law proclaims

the local rabbits friendly,

so I suppose that this one

simply doesn’t recognize me

as a member of the clan.

He jumps through a fence-hole

and hides behind a crepe myrtle.

Perhaps it’s the barbecue fork in my hand,

or the smoke and smell of grilling meat.

Moving into the blazing July yard a bit,

I crane my neck around the flowering crepe,

and see him posing, staring across the creek

to where the tall grass swallows gazes.

Two robins land a few feet away,

tweet and twitter at him who never moves.

I look to where his eyes have gone

and all is yellow, orange, green,

all blade and brush and heat.

When I look back, he’s vanished.

I stand there for a long time,

my stupid fork hanging at my side,

while the meat turns black

and the night comes relentlessly on.