The Hare

This morning I saw his tracks on the frosty grass - a magic trail of dainty pawprints that circled and wove and meandered as he etched his will on the whiteness. I saw where he stopped to sniff an icy sprig of privet; when he jumped high at some muted sound; where a jewelled web trembled still as it had when he touched it with a warm inquiring nose. His tracks lead to the hole in the fence and then I knew he had gone. The wide world of the lane was his to explore.