Wednesday, 30 April 2014

On Hares and Haring

I love hares.
I love suddenly seeing one scampering across a field in a rare sighting of camouflaged elegance.
I love how they run: part fox, part deer.
I love how they disappear in the middle of a field for as long as I try to find them, then reappear suddenly, as if magicked from nowhere.
I love how they run in circles in play with others, sometimes so close they become one. I have mistaken two charging in spirals for a retriever. It reminds me of the story of the tiger that ran so fast around around it melted into pancake mixture. (Not this pancake story)
I love spotting them crouched, black-tipped ears akimbo, motionless in the middle of a field, and waiting for them to feel safe enough to charge low to a dyke.
I love catching sight of one through the window, as it lollops up the lane towards the saltmarsh, hind legs coiling and extending in slow loops.
I love trying to keep up with them through my binoculars racing the fields - creating a tense energy standing still.
I love how they're not kept as pets like rabbits.
I love that I live in a place where they live, even if it means I find them ripped dead, killed by people who don't love them but see them as sport and don't respect them enough to eat them, but leave them flung aside or strung up on fences as a trophy to their dogs and therefore them.
I love and therefore I pain. I anger therefore I love.

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