On this morning's walk, when I hadn’t finished one of my stories and we are close to our respective sidewalks to our homes, we walk a few more lengths. He stopped to show me the rabbit that sleeps on my front lawn, just below the cement pieces that encircle the birch tree.
On being startled the rabbit hopped over a few yards and stopped at my porch.
“See, there it is,” he pointed to a small nest in the snow. “The rabbit has been staying in that spot all winter.”
Alice thinks the rabbit belongs to her. Even though she is barely tall enough to see over the bottom ledge of their front window, she will go there and look for the rabbit, sometimes seeing it hop across the lawn and calling to her parents in her baby language to come and look. Nothing she calls would alert anyone else to go, but you know something is happening outside the window by the way she is anxiously calling them.
There is nothing about cuddling up to a bunch of stones on a front lawn, or huddling up against the back of the house, which I where I see them.
In the past the only rabbits I have known were Br'er Rabbit, Peter Rabbit, the White Rabbit, the March Hare and Bugs Bunny.
On my early morning walks I have become acquainted with real rabbits who have a charm of their own.