Issue: Spring 2017
When the ears light up in the last light
you can see through.
The hare in the high grass goes as still
as your breathing.
His ears are alight. You are listening too.
The wren arrives in the aural field
like an alarm
as loud as a god, the one you long for,
the one with answers.
The wren says cheerily, cheerily, cheerily.
Fields away another answers like the echo
chamber in your chest,
the hare with the ears of light still—
He’s as afraid of you as you are, tuning the last light.