"The Snowshoe Hare," by Mary Oliver

The fox

is so quiet—

he moves like a red rain—

even when his

shoulders tense and then

snuggle down for an instant

against the ground

and the perfect

gate of his teeth

slams shut

there is nothing

you can hear

but the cold creek moving

over the dark pebbles

and across the field

and into the rest of the world—

and even when you find

in the morning

the feathery

scuffs of fur

of the vanished

snowshoe hare

tangled

on the pale spires

of the broken flowers

of the lost summer—

fluttering a little

but only

like the lapping threads

of the wind itself—

there is still

nothing that you can hear

but the cold creek moving

over the old pebbles

and across the field and into

another year.

"The Snowshoe Hare" by Mary Oliver, from New & Selected Poems. © Beacon Press, 1992.