Dinner Dance

She’s proud in her own way
The rabbit crouched, its resting form
Adorned with carrots on the plate.
I still sense its living warmth.

You can see the field from our house
Where the rabbit once panicked, turned
The fleeting circle of life come back round
Poised motionless, the muscles firmed.

It could have escaped in youth, just once
So long ago. Now it’s aged and still
Condemned to our leftovers, scraped into tins
When our own warmed bellies are good and filled.

Even now I’m sure I see the lightning blur
Of the gunshot, the rabbit slumped, and the fur.