Praise be the hares on Oyster
As they curl on the stone beach
And look across at Rosses!

Do they take that shape to look good-
A soul looking toward heaven
But not ready to go yet?

When I take the binoculars and see the blur of the hare
Seperating itself from the blur of the stones
The disturbance eases.

The hare that always turns back a moment
To look steadfastly into the sights
Of the rifle that will kill him

Bounces forward, looks back into my eyes,
Bounces forward, looks into my daughter's eyes,
And settles comfortable,

Comforting me in my turn.
Praise be the hares on Oyster Island!
Put there by huntsmen. Loved by poets.

And gone at last beyond the reach of dogs.
They eat with the sheep and the guinea hens,
And run short distances between bouts of contemplation.

May they have long lives,
The hares that afford us a break
From the language that would explain them.

May they be shot straight through the heart
By a woman in a boat, and then wake to hear
The bells of the halyards.

That nature allowed me
A moment to look back the way I've come
And feel, this time, I'm safe for a while.

To be like the hares that sit out there beyond smell,
Beyond touch, secure on their pads as they sit
Up and remember!

May the hares increase! The inspiration
They give me prosper. That I learn to make of isolation
And fear a grand thing.

Let the hare sit! Let the hare sit on the moon!
And may we all be shot straight through the heart
By a woman in a boat.