The Hare

I awoke in a wood, and found myself observing a race;

I batted my eyes, must’ve mistook - but, alas, a rabbit! There! Setting an anxious pace.


I stretched my weary, worn out limbs to pursue the hasty, swift hare;

On hurried feet heedless it springs - but will he win? Or he’s headstrong, hot air.


Soon, I noted, its agility elevated.

Too fast to think, ego bloated,

With loss of control, even more trouble was created.


In its speed it fell in a thorny thicket,

And lost to one slower cricket.

Poison were the plants,

It writhed, it danced,

But from our dead racer, there is no picket.


After that final scene,

I awoke to find it was a dream,

That hasty rabbit,

That victorious cricket.

What does this vision mean?

Is it a harrowing sign from above?

Or Aesop’s remnants my tired mind crafted all of?

-W.B. October


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