Clover Your mother has, I’m sure, told you about the rabbit on the moon? Mine tells of the wild hare born to a pair of pet rabbits in a house down the trail —or sometimes monkeys, sometimes otters, sometimes a toad, but mostly rabbits, downy grey things with dumpling bums and periscope ears. In any case the hare ate no pellets, only mouthfuls of clover staining his maw yellow, jumped too high with muscles that knew the wind like an old friend and finally one evening leapt and landed on the moon. He sleeps as the moon turns to shadow, refusing cold starlight and eternity’s gaze, but every month when his perch swivels allowing him a view of brushstroke clouds, water churning slow as azure tree sap, he sticks his paws in those craters and makes himself useful. Grinds bitter powder for the sick, and sticky cakes of rice for the hungry. All the while noticing— he’s never noticed before, between monolith ice caps— islands green as clover springing up as if underfoot as if he can almost taste bent grass rising to the sun while his shadow flees the scene.