The Old Rabbit in My Field

wind rattles, rain pelts down,
and I wonder,
can the old rabbit in my field recall
it was my shouting that gave the dumb dogs
(who chase anything that runs)
a moment's pause in broad daylight
so he could tear to safety
through the sagging fence?

can he imagine it was my cat,
that fearless kitty body,
who leaped out the door into the mud
growling his territorial insults,
and gave those same two dogs
the fright of their lives?
(they will think twice before
wandering over here again)

could he hear my gasp of joy
when I came home one night
and saw him in my headlights
listening, very still?
could he understand how slowly
I inched forward, stopping
and starting, to be sure
he could sort out where to run?

perhaps he's old now,
a little deaf, or perhaps
just rudely blinded,
frozen for a moment
in the landscape of weeds
whited out by my lights;
then he sprints to safety
and we part

the tick and rumble of my truck
make me want to back out,
embarrassed to intrude--
can he ever know how grateful
I am when I glimpse
his huge hoary ears still here,
still tolerating my alien presence,
this old woman in his field?