Four white ghosts fly out of the moon, their milky whiteness flowing like cream. Two black gulls follow them down, a curve like an arc of perfect sex as they swoop from a sky tinted from indigo to cerulean towards the hare.
I am the hare, just for a moment, alone and petrified, the weight of millions of years of being hunted. I cannot breathe, cannot think as I stare at the sky in abject horror.
Perspective shifts, the scene changes. The hare turns to look at the sky, and the birds wheeling s