Not once has she approached me in the fields, and I assume that beyond the wall she runs from me as she would from any human. But I find I do not need to know any more than I already do. I am content with the small part of her life that overlaps with mine. Ours are different worlds. She can cross into mine, but hers will always be out of reach to me, and that is as it should be. Perhaps, like Cowper’s hare, she might live to old age if she were kept shut up in the house. But that would be to alter her nature. Instead, she lives the life of the wild hare: hard-pressed, short perhaps, but free.
