In the morning I passed a dead rabbit in the street. It was stretched on its side close to the curb, unblemished, as if it were sleeping. I think it must almost have escaped. In its jagged dash from lawn to lawn, the rabbit was clipped by the bumper of someone’s car, so that it slid to rest stunned, still in its sprinting posture, still wholesome but torn inside, its side subtly heaving until, at last, it lay still. I couldn’t see the eyes. So pristine was it that I thought for a moment about picking it up from the asphalt and carrying it the last little distance to the next patch of grass. But the lawns were all well manicured, and surely the owner would have pushed the corpse back into the gutter where the feral dead belong. Soon the sweeper will bear it away.
Just a few feet from earth, that road-killed rabbit