An early flight from London on a crystal day in March.
The English coast near Liverpool, the Isle and Calf of Man,
the Irish coast by Strangford Lough. A change of engine note,
the swift descent across the little fields, Lough Neagh ahead,
a bump, the sharp deceleration, taxi to the runway’s end,
a U-turn, taxi back toward the terminal.

My luck to have a starboard window seat.
Indifferent, it seemed, to aircraft and their noise,
a dozen hares were boxing on the grass between the runways.

Hares were carriers of light for Eostre, goddess of the dawn.
She gave her name to Easter.
On the full moon stands a hare who holds an egg.
The females biff the males.

All useful background. But to see them there, that morning,
going at it just as they’re supposed to: wonder was enough.