The Rabbit

In the last light of day I walk. I leave my burrow, with its' dark corners and earthy musty smells and go to the open expanse of the channel. There I stand, a solitairy figure, leaning on the wind humming railing, looking out over the water. I am deep in thought. Writer's thought. To myself I describe what I see and at the same time describe the describing.
I am pensive and removed. I am in life and out of life. I walk slowly, painfully aware of my writer's aches, hours spent sitting, furiously whacking on the typepad, pouring phrases onto a virtual sheet. There's a rabbit! I freeze. I can freeze well, you know. Not moving, I do very well. The rabbit scumps away. He comes to a stop and sits watching, from a safe distance. Mostly he has his back turned on me, but is able to keep me in sight, just in case I am a wolf in manish clothing. We have a stare down. I do what I do. I imagine what it is like to be a rabbit. I touch his soft fur, feel how it feels to be compact sitting. It is getting onto dark, so he is barely visible. I imagine his long ears and think what this means. What is the world telling me? What does a rabbit stand for? What is the metaphor? Thoughts of a madman. The endless describing of the describing. The judgement and the sentence
Carefully, I walk backwards. Turn left and cross the street. I walk on the other side and when I come to par with him, he runs into the street, confused and then back on the sidewalk. He is my friend now, we have something in common. Confusion. There is one big difference between my new friend and I. He is himself. He is just-so, whereas I, I am just confused.