Outside my kitchen window two fawns sample the air, the light, my grass: so young their coats still hold the scattered print of sun. They nuzzle, lick each other. Then… some sign of watching doe or vigilant blood-beat sends them bounding through the hedge, tails flipping white.
Outside my study window a young rabbit rolls over, stretches, wriggles briefly ecstatically in mud and sun, white belly a sudden elongating dazzle— then lopes away.
What grace is it that brings these offerings of innocence now, among our cries for innocence betrayed?