Wednesday, November 16, 2016

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

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