Whose side I am on:
the guard rabbit’s, sitting so patiently in the backyard,
hour after hour, day and night,
beside what we presume to be a hutch
buried under the ivy at the bottom of the ash tree?
Or the crow’s, perching not so patiently on a low branch
now and then,
when the promise of fresh bunny flesh and blood
becomes seductive enough to overcome boredom?
Which one are we rooting for?
The underdog defender, faithfully, instinctively protecting
its growing family, or so we presume?
Must it get our automatic sympathy,
mute, cute, with its little cotton tail?
Or do we root for the black, cackling attacker, never our favorite,
waiting to prey on the tender little bundles of fluff
when they make their first foray into the open?
Already we’ve seen one being carried off.
How can we wish the hungry scavenger success?
Whereupon I reflect upon my garden,
assiduously surrounded by a double layer of finely meshed fence,
and the thousands of dollars of damage
those chomping little buck teeth inflict
in every corner of our tax-supported parks.
I continue to waver.
