Hare

On a freezing cold Saturday, I was returning from a walk with my father. We were weary but lost in chat, and descended the steep Berkshire downs to the chalk and flint below. It was here, in the middle of a field, that we came upon a sight of unnerving peculiarity. Nine hares were seated in a perfect circle, each one facing inwards. Within the circle were two hares back to back, facing what may have been their jury, pupils or tribe. Hair prickling, we walked slowly forward and, disturbed by our intrusion, the gathering broke and each cantered off with a slight look of annoyance. We faced each other, placing our hands on one another’s shoulders, and agreed that we really had both seen the same peculiar sight. Dusk felt witchier, and we walked home in awe-struck silence. I will no longer lift the gun to a hare as I am convinced that they have access to nature’s secrets. I still occasionally sit down to a plate of hare, finding its seductive smell and dark meat irresistible.