I prefer to think of her stepping delicately through the corn stubble, sampling the wind, then racing, outstripping all the other hares until she chooses to let one catch up. I picture her occasionally looking back from afar to see the gleam of the light in the window of the room where I am sitting now to write, waiting for her to leap over the wall once more, shake out her ears and slip into the house, sure of her safety and her welcome.
