by Meg Shearer

Forests, flowing rivers, 
Sky reaching trees.
All of these things I see.
But there is one disturbing thing.
Lots of ice.
Melting ice.
I tear my gaze away from the hare,
But she is still staring at me,
She nudges me, with her soft paws,
Almost like she’s begging me.
As I run my fingers down her silvery coat,
Her fur glimmers.
Like ice.
Melting ice.