Woke up this morning, started the laundry, mentally planning out my day — yardwork, paint the kitchen, read a book maybe…

Opened the front door to put a letter in the mailbox. A odd discolored lump on the front lawn caught my eye. It was a rabbit, a large gash in his side, torn open and flyblown in the grass.

I’d seen him a lot over the past few weeks late at night, running here and there. I thought of him as my rabbit and it made me happy to see him out under the moon (under Inle, I suppose I should say). Never for more than a few moments, but he was often there. A quick movement on the grass, running across the sidewalk, across the street.

I’d liked him, the idea of having a rabbit out there in the night — always assumed he was male, a lonely hlessi living under the hedge.

I woke up in the middle of the night last night, about four o’clock. Very awake and very apprehensive. The room was hot and oppressive, and I lay there for awhile thinking about the kids, all the way in California. Worried about them, worried for them.

I’d been thinking about death, far away, where I couldn’t stop it.

Eventually I turned off the light and slept.

Closer than I thought, death.

Last night a rabbit died, just outside my window. I found him this morning, ni-frith, when I went to mail a letter. He was on the lawn, a few leaps from the hedge. The hide around his shoulder and throat torn away. Not eaten, just savaged in one quick moment. One of the thousand enemies caught him before he could make it to safety.

Closer than I thought.