after
one cancer scare
one heart attack
one hand surgery
one gained weight loss
I lace up my pickleball shoes
and return to the asphalt
of my suburban streets
under skies filled
with the grey promise
of summer rain
it is The Rabbit’s Hour
that dawn-dim time of a summer’s morn
when the wild rabbits emerge
to munch the unmown fringes
between pastel mid-century homes
before ceding their world
to the one ushered in
by joggers with leashed labradoodles
the rabbits play leapfrog
through curated gardens
past sword-leaf and yucca
but go rock-still as I near
fixing me with
one onyx eye
a perfect cabochon bead
keeping me in full view
waiting
I slow as I pass
to appreciate longer
their inborn technique
of not being seen
heathered brown fur
blending with the drying grass
the eye does not blink
I am its only subject
its sole concern
as fate hangs on the breeze
the air shifts slightly
loaded with the perfect pairing
of petrichor and lavender
and as I continue onward
the nose twitches
once
twice
my pickleball shoes
have never been used
for their designed purpose
as I prefer to walk
among conifers and rhodies
when the world is sufficiently calm
for me to glimpse the place
where their world and mine
meet
Kurt R.A. Giambastiani 