One fine day, this bunny went a-runnin for a change. Just a-runnin. In an innocent, devoted kind of a way. Up hill, down dale, through the glades of former glories. With no special intent; no keepin a lookout; no particular reason to be carryin a camera. Me, I like to think she was bird watchin, this bunny. She carefully avoided the paths she used to love, until—by sheer blunder—she found herself ensconced among the beech trees, a place of long-lost thrill and kisses. Heartened—when she might have been blown—she settled herself. And waited. You might even say she hid. She didn’t mind the cold. She welcomed the damp. She was wrapped in her faithful grey marl sweats. Glowing from the run. She was resting. Waiting. Camera in hand.

And prowling predictably through the trees, the wolf, he made his big bad entry. About the time he always did. Not that I had been expecting him, you get me. Not that I had a plan—oh no. Me, I’m just a sweet little cookie, just like my Poppa told me. But I snuck a shot—why not?

Clickety-click-click-click.

Any un-sweet part of me is his fault.

Click.

I was centred as the sun in the sky, calm as a cat on a hot tin roof. I was cold as a blistering fire. How beautiful he was still, so powerfully alone. His being charged with my dreams; dreams breathy; dreams gone. I wanted so much to hate him, to hold him, to hold him to me. My pulse rose and paddled, knocking at my heart. Driving terrible tickle to that itty-bitty part. Tides rose and fell, sluiced me of anger.

A certain cotton coddler, dear little thing, discovered the secrets of…

Aah, but that: I keep.

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