Magic Trick

One morning—for a blink—a black rabbit
forages in downtown Seattle. I witness,
grin—the rabbit knows shortcuts
to Wonderland.

Then, poof!
The ears, the rabbit, vanish
into a regal silhouette
distinctly corvine.
She—a crow—raises her critical eye,
smoothes her plumage.
I am not Alice.

For a blink, this crow was my rabbit.
As her beak prodded planting strip,
her tail swung high
and those rounded feathers split
to make two ears, soft, dark, lupine.
Presto! A black rabbit two blocks from REI.

It could happen. The next night, I did glimpse
the bouncy, silent passage
of a feral bunny
at the Valley Ridge Playfield parking lot

but did not follow. In the darkness
I admit it is that crow who called hocus-pocus.

Categories Poetry

Pamela Hobart Carter loves Seattle as much for its water and mountains as for its bustle and creativity. She explores the Emerald City daily while walking her dog. Carter used to be a teacher who wrote on the side. Now she is a writer who teaches on the side.

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