The Rabbit and the Owl

I wrote this for you, the story that caused you to weep.

The baby rabbit waited in the drive, perfectly still, looking directly at you.

You approached slowly. Its eyes focused on you. It didn't move.

You reached the side not facing you and discovered a gaping injury.
A hole. Pure pain. In both.

Returning with water and carrots, you found the creature gone.
But where? How long would she live?

I was away, looking at an owl on the deck of a friend's cottage.

As you talked, I saw no birds. No bird droppings.
The owl just going what owls do, I thought.

Later, we saw your tender one, marked still but healing.

The owl did not have her for dinner. She was eating the grass.