Ray Rasmussen

What the Rabbit Promised

I wake alone in my townhouse, butter a peach-raisin scone and pour orange pekoe tea in my favourite cup. My binoculars, worn from years of birdwatching, are near at hand.

I focus on the meadow where it meets a dense wall of Caragana shrubs. Many mornings I’ve watched coyotes move like shadows through them, but not today, which is a relief.

And then, as I hoped it would, a small, rounded shape appears, its coat a blend of spring brown and winter white, its jaws working steadily. A bit of grass hangs from the side of its mouth.

Here it is, my rabbit in my meadow. I think of a line from a sutra on Buddhism—something about how the wise don’t think of anything as truly belonging to themselves. Still, I keep using those words: my rabbit, my meadow, my bungalow, my cup. I understand now that the “Mys” set me up for disappointment. But they’re habits, like stirring honey into my tea. On the mornings my rabbit doesn’t appear, I worry and return throughout the day, hoping to see it.

On the counter behind me, the latest envelope from the bank waits with its polite logo. Opened, I’m told I can choose from a variety of “credit cards that take you further.” It indirectly reminds me that some of my townhouse is not really mine, and that I’m eligible to assume even more debt.

Raising my binoculars again, I see the rabbit’s head go up and its ears flick at some sound I can’t hear. I scan for danger, as if it’s us, both me and the rabbit, that are in jeopardy. I keep watching, anxious. Then the rabbit bunches itself and disappears into the tangle of branches.

Finally, after a long moment of uncertain watching, I notice the tea and scones have cooled, but the bank letter still waits, offering, promising. Out there, hidden, the rabbit is just being a rabbit. Not really mine, but isn’t it?

I clear the table, wipe a ring of tea from the table, and wash the cup.

coyote's yip
gate latch
checked twice

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Note: The Buddhist precept I paraphrased was from Sn 4.6—Jara Sutta (“On Decay / Old Age”): “Life is short. Possessiveness brings grief. Freedom comes from abandoning any sense of mine.” Taken on May 2, 2025, from Digitalpalireader.

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About the Author

Ray Rasmussen has edited various haibun journals and published his haibun, haiga, and haiku widely in journals and anthologies. He lives in a townhouse looking out to a meadow in Edmonton, Canada. He and his partner enjoy reading, hiking, canoeing, and snowshoeing together. Ray’s haibun collection, Landmarks, is available on Amazon.com. His haibun blog is “All Things Haibun.”

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