As I sleep, or ride the bus to work, or wander the shops that make this nation great and look at little boxes with green lights and black switches, or play cards with my daughter, a hungry beast stalks me. It caught my scent at birth — earlier, in the womb. I’ve escaped its jaws once or twice: in a river, when it clamped my leg and tried to hold me under; on an inner city street, when we stood nose to nose and I looked into its crazed eyes. It blinked and slunk back into the shadows, but I haven’t forgotten it’s there. It will never give up or go away, and one day it will catch me. It might take me by surprise, or I might hear it coming and find myself in a blind alley, escape impossible.
What am I, then? A baby rabbit, neck broken, body stiff, found at sunrise on the back porch.