I’m watching a bunny watching me. The bunny is sitting in the garden, at the base of the pear tree, in the little bunny-sized divot in the earth the bunny settles into each morning. I’m walking on my treadmill in front of the window, pretending to write while I watch the bunny. Rabbit. Hare.
It’s not fully grown but these guys get big – long. They’re a bit scary when they leap across the road. So we call it a bunny, to emphasize the sweetness.
Will this lead to more bunnies in my stories, the way I like to add crows and apple trees? Maybe a really big hare. Hmmmm.
Maureen
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