bunnies at dusk

I am a white man

clothed in a yellow reflective shirt.

I wear a helmet for protection

and I am panting heavily

as I pedal

as hard as metal,

making my own competition

with imagined rivals.

I’m sure to reach the end

before the others,

since no one seems to agree with me

when the race began,

where it finishes,

and who qualifies.

I pass the circle of flags

on the right side of the street.

Here the nations gather,

some of whom claim

this is the left side of the street.

“It depends which way you look at it,”

they say.

No matter. This is my path,

we are in My Country now,

and no one else is here

because the day

is ready for a comfortable dinner.

It is a warm day in November.

Dusk. The clocks fell back

not too long ago.

And east of the path

runs a canal, channeling water

to the Great Lake.

Trees and tall brush grow by the canal,

providing shelter for

small wild animals.

I spot several bunnies,

venturing out from the brush,

onto the path,

but when they see me coming,

bright and reflective,

I appear to them as a god,

fast and fearsome,

rising like fire on dry prairie,

silent as the last breath

of death.

So, they run and hide

somewhere verdant I’ve never been.

They don’t have to be afraid, really.

I have no gun.

But I suppose they don’t know that.

Never mind. I ride on. My mind set on home,
my lovely white house.

And as I pedal, I laud the trees still clinging

to gold leaves

in praise of prosperity

while those that are bare I curse.

If only everything could shine as I do,

no luster lost,

I would be happy evermore.

Alas, even the bunnies

will die with or without me

in their small dirt hideaways

(likely because of natural causes—

most of them are diseased).

So, don’t blame me for their death.

You can’t seriously expect me

to be responsible for them all,

can you?

bunnies at dusk

by troy cady