Hare
Dawn. The sky a deep pink, mottled with clouds. Already it’s warm.
I roll over and up onto my elbows. Blackbird clucks a scolding and I apologise for intruding into her morning. We go through this daily ritual, as if it were the first time. As I nod my greeting to Robin, I see a jumble of tiny legs wriggling feebly from his beak. He cocks his head, then sets about his business. Hare lies low, her ears flat and nose twitching. Tucked against the stone, beautiful in profile.
My gaze follows a bumble bee bustling about the cowslips before it leaves the place I cannot. I think about what I am missing, but what I would have missed if I weren’t here.
Hare has begun her breakfast, her jaws busy with the occupation of chewing. She turns to look at me. Thick eyelashes frame her large brown eyes, whiskers pert and adrift. When she bobs down to nibble at the young grass, her ears lift and flicker at the bird song. We are at peace, Hare and I.
To my left is a pile of earth. I watched them yesterday – saw their pinched white faces, finally believing and lost in their grief. Robin is there now, prospecting for insects and worms to drop into the hungry beaks of his insatiable brood.
A shot rings out, followed by the angry retort of crows. Hare shrinks down. Her nostrils flare. Wren’s singing breaks into the stillness and Hare relaxes. But not for long. The bells ring out and she is gone. Where she was, the grass is flattened. Where I am, there is nothing.
In the afternoon, my stone will be warm. I shall rest my back against it and wait for Hare to return.
Harriet Worrell writes flash fiction, short stories and novels for children and grown-ups. She writes most evenings, on the sofa with an elderly cat at her side.