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The Hare That Ran by Jane Burn

Jubilations of new-grown grass lash at my sides as I fleet. Each meadow
offers sugar to my tongue. I chew on crop and luscious stem, exhale a cloud
of herb-scented breath. Mine is life above the clay. I cannot not be tied.

Garbed in a gown of stars I skim the moon-milk ground. I am not tethered
to roots. What is the night? It is the edge of survival, the dark knife of danger.
Like a locket, I wear my pounding heart. I bear the hope of life

in the warm shroud of my womb. I pulse with blood—pull air through
the length of my lungs. I have squatted while the reeking step of a hungry fox
has passed close by my head, clamped my chattering teeth and lived.

Which one of us owns wisdom most? I am moments. I am a living myth—
am the soul of poets. Am free. I would sit at your knee and tongue you
the tales I have written in miles, if you did not make me feel so very afraid.

My paws have filled pages. You have built your magic around me.
If you love us, leave us our land. Stop your dogs. Put down your lead.