My Lord is a snake, twisting in the grass, strangling a pale rabbit.
Behind the latticework, within the alcove, upon the thick grass carpet.
He is a slender muscle, coiled round her throat and everywhere else.
Not wishing to stir Him, we escape the way we’d come, hidden beneath the canopy of vines, only a mere breadth away.
He stalks the warren-hole.
My Lord, the snake, all golden and darkly spotted– shining reptile skin in the sunlight…
We shiver, knowing He approaches… searching for another pale rabbit.