“You can’t touch them,”
my babysitter warned
about the bunnies burrowed
in a hole at the corner
of our front lawn.
I’d see puffs of fuzz float
from their home and land
soft in the grass as I drew with chalk
on the driveway.
I’d peer in at the tight-eyed lumps,
barely furry hides heaped
on top of one another.
“You can’t because the mother will smell you
and won’t come back to teach them hopping.”
I listened
but thought Babies, don’t go.
So I reached my hand inside to feel
the puddle of wriggling
smooth skins.
The next morning
half a rabbit hind
lined the walkway to my house.
