Washing whiskers whiffling in the sun.
I stop. Who am I?
Still I sit, watching, whiffling, waiting,
Wipe a whisker, peer over a finger.
Finger? Look down, it is a paw, a claw.
I blink. It is a finger.
Blink again. It is a claw.
What am I?

I sit up. My legs curl under me,
Fur-brown dress wrapped around
Above white-socked feet,
I lean into the grass, propped on an elbow.
My long ears twitch.
I reach a paw to pull one down,
Nibble the end with long white teeth.

I drop paws down into the grass.
Nose follows. Scents fill it.
I nibble grass.
Eyes that see round corners
Fill with the colour of morning.
I sit up again, watch my paws,
My hands, paw-hands.
My dress if fur and not-fur.
My ears are long.

Life lives is scent and colour,
Touch and taste and texture.
I am what I am.

this poem, hare girl, grew out of my novel Moon Song the picture, Hare Washing, is by Mike Rae