Like Robert Burns, I too turn up a nest
while working, raking last year's leaves in spring.
But not a mouse. Pale rabbits, shivering,
rustled from their blind and naked rest.
If they showed fright, I'd feel it in my chest,
but only shying from the chill, they cling
together close, alive as anything,
three steps from Route 1A. Unwelcome guest,
I have surprised them in their nursery,
stumbling on the bed and canopy
their diligent though absent mother built,
with muzzle-fashioned, straw-and-lapin quilt,
but I am less disturbance than a flea.
They focus on the task at hand. To be.