![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
neverspentThere's a persimmon tree that grows up right next to the second-floor walkway bridge I cross to get out of my apartment, and by the middle of the summer the boards will be slick with crushed fruit. But now the persimmons are wee babies.
Made the trip west to the farm again this evening. The roadsides are full of Queen Anne's lace (wild carrot), white tops reaching just above the tall grass. Queen Anne's lace is well-named. When the sun is behind it you can imagine curtains made of it. I love the overgrown ditches in early summer before the County starts to bushhog. They smell rich and alive.
When I was nearing home, just as the sun was resting, fiery pink, on the rim of the hills, a rabbit shot out of those roadside grasses and under my car. It was so fast, I only saw it in the same moment it was killed. Big rabbit. I felt it under both of my tires. So I spent the rest of the trip dealing with the event, as you do. For a few moments, there was a cushioned kind of shock, and then I had to figure out how I was going to take on board this accidental, violent act I had committed.
Long before I learned to drive, when I started using a riding lawn mower as part of my summer chores on the farm, I had come to the conclusion that by using these large, powerful, indiscriminate machines, we are consenting to be killers. I am uncomfortable with the fact that our society makes this virtually necessary, but I live with it. And I still want to say I'm sorry to the rabbit.
Made the trip west to the farm again this evening. The roadsides are full of Queen Anne's lace (wild carrot), white tops reaching just above the tall grass. Queen Anne's lace is well-named. When the sun is behind it you can imagine curtains made of it. I love the overgrown ditches in early summer before the County starts to bushhog. They smell rich and alive.
When I was nearing home, just as the sun was resting, fiery pink, on the rim of the hills, a rabbit shot out of those roadside grasses and under my car. It was so fast, I only saw it in the same moment it was killed. Big rabbit. I felt it under both of my tires. So I spent the rest of the trip dealing with the event, as you do. For a few moments, there was a cushioned kind of shock, and then I had to figure out how I was going to take on board this accidental, violent act I had committed.
Long before I learned to drive, when I started using a riding lawn mower as part of my summer chores on the farm, I had come to the conclusion that by using these large, powerful, indiscriminate machines, we are consenting to be killers. I am uncomfortable with the fact that our society makes this virtually necessary, but I live with it. And I still want to say I'm sorry to the rabbit.