Through the Pickets

I braced both paws against the weathered lower rail of the garden wicket gate, hoisting myself up to find a clear sightline into the meadow. Through the narrow gap between two silvered cedar pickets, the tall autumn grass stretched out in quiet waves. Resting right by the ditch, a brown hare sat completely motionless, its long ears twitching at the faint morning breeze. I held my breath, slowly raising my brass binoculars so their barrels wouldn't tap the damp timber. Through the twin lenses, every whisker and frosty strand of grass stood in crisp relief. It munched three quiet clover stems before bounding silently away into the briars.