The sunlight went slowly on through the dust and the fleshy corrugations of clouds, slower than the wind turning the turbines black like the wind that came from the trees the cold evening before the hunt. The sky was cold and clear besides the stark clouds – the sun’s eye turning from leaving them dead and grey above the wild grasses getting darker as they’re stirred in the wind.
Through the grass they stalked before the headlights. In the headlights – I can see he’s still breathing – Another was loaded. Their shadows falling in the shadows of the clumps of wild grass and the grey with gold running through hare took another, final shot. They moved on it and saw that it was dead under white torch light, on grass green again and one picked it up by its hind legs and it’s eye rolled back with the bright brown stare of life just fleeted and not the frozen fish eye under the white torch lights as they gutted it standing in a circle with its blood wetting in streaks across the white fluff of its underbelly.
Cleaned and prepared, they ate it the next day with onions, mushrooms, tomatoes; all with forks dipping into the pan placed in the centre of the table.
The light beyond the horizon was cast upon the clouds’ corrugations in old ribcages and spines, a severed rabbit foot, snapped off, falling away with the guts in a black bag that night and later, under a full moon, its bones.