to a wild rabbit

(prince of the fields)
***

words are mine
no words take from his eyes
the breeze blown beauty of the woodlands
nor the silver scented sight of evening glories

manhood mine
a prince of the fields is he
even in the terror of flight
a strange high ecstacy spirits to delight

age is mine
he will not grow old
nor fear the passing of his world
the bitterness of friends becoming foes