1

The History of Solitude

1

From the tall brown grass a small brown rabbit appears.
It moves to the middle of the field and sits,
Its ribs clearly visible

                                        even in the faint,

Uneven evening light
Of autumn.

2

                                              It is the end of November—

Soon, the season's first fat, wet flakes of snow will fall
And that field, with its rabbits,
Will retreat.

3

                                        In its place, another
Winter's flat, white slate will present itself
So bleakly, so . . . blankly—

4

One could almost write
The History of Solitude

Upon it.