Wednesday, April 8, 2009

To a Rabbit

Fifty-five miles an hour.
Dark, late.
Road snakes ahead, winding out of sight.
White line, yellow line, yellow line, white.
Suddenly, movement.
Briefly illuminated, an instant to react.
Too quick. Too slow.
A thud - dull, sick-making, then gone.

The road continues, winding on, out of sight.
It neither knows nor cares.
White line, yellow line, yellow line, white.
Forgive me.


Lynne said...

What a horrible feeling. Sorry.

nina at Nature Remains. said...

Oh, no.
So sad.

(But your poem is really wonderful)

I hit a rabbit last winter, driving home from work, not even very fast. He was just, suddenly, there--almost as if he ran into me.

I stopped the car and lifted him from the road, cupped in my mittened hands. Then, set him under a bush beside the road.
I'm sure he died that evening, either of his injuries or fright--maybe the cold.

I think of him every time I pass that darn bush.

NCmountainwoman said...

Wonderful poignant poem that expresses so well what we feel when something like that happens. In addition to grief, I also feel the animal for being an animal. Why did you run out there like that?