Moody and the Hare

November 08, 2020

Moody and the Hare

I did not easily discern any reason for her death, no shredding by coyote's teeth, no ripping by raven's beak. Was it the cold air of night, the same cold air that brought snow to the observant peaks looking down on the scene? Was it because she was swept away by a downpour's rampant flood? Did the means even matter in the end? Soon enough she would be repurposed; if crow did not discover her body in the afternoon, coyote would make use of her remains at night. In that way, death sustains life.

"... Then suddenly my heart is wrung

By her distracted air

And I remember wildness lost

And after, swept from there,

Am set down standing in the wood

At the death of the hare."

(W. B. Yeats, The Death of the Hare)

The sky, with a moody face painted on this morning, greeted with dark shadows one moment and joyous blue the next, shifting and drifting clouds being pushed by the air suddenly sprung to life. Though far from early, my tracks in the mud appeared to only have been beaten to the "first" punch by a pair of feet, the treads of a trail runner pushing deeper into the damp ground than either of my wheels.