You will notice the grand wood paneling in the rabbit hole. The sportive nature of rabbits so decrees because death remains no better than an exaggeration. Note the sparkly zest of rabbit as it pops from grassy clusters just to evade your interest. You and your dog note the vitality inherent in fleeing. It smells like the days. Rabbits sit quietly with ears, rise from the planet with scrambling hops, and elsewhere becomes a prank. Some hungry hunter may just catch, such is the life of fodder, but the teeming ranks prove hearty. Union-led and Union-fed, the proletarian consort bullets from gorse and sedge and provocative grass, provoking administration. Files of rabbitry sniff carrot leaves and feed. Endgame means nothing but a flash. The right spirit of experience feeds a moon risen in the morn. Fabulous dawn exalts the further chase. Rabbits run with the featured thrall of just this adrenalin quoin, both structural and aesthetic. The many spread into the one, the one into the many. Everyday a total rabbit run on the fine solstice carpet. Where do you start?
It begins with a scanning of light, a settlement of words. The lightly fracture of Bird sound begins in the office of seeing. Not sentiment but sense, as cool as Green in the Early days. Pasture resists nonpasture, no one Refers to none. All remains including nothing. Morning Is belief and there simply there. Tides go freshly to the point.
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