~ after Albrecht Dürer, 1502
In the backyard, where workmen have left
two-by-fours and panels of exterior plywood
next to the HVAC unit, a young hare twitches
in the damp grass. The shed we’re trying
to put up is only a shell— frame made of
eight beams on a small cement square, nothing
yet resembling a roof. The carpenter we hired
didn’t say we needed to get a permit. When we
pointed to the existing shed leaning against
the far end of the fence, its hems rotted
through from standing in water with every
hard rain, he merely said, I can build you
one’a those for cheap. He comes and goes
every couple of weeks, putting in a few
hours at the end of the day; it’s been two
months since we started. Then, a week ago
we get a notice from the city, with the words
stop, and fine, and permit. I kind of feel
like you, I say to the hare, stooping down
to eye level and wondering why it doesn’t
bolt though I can tell its heart rate
has increased in the last three minutes
since I came upon it, on my way to throw
the trash into the bin. Perhaps it’s trying
to gauge the nature of the threat, or if I am
one. I watch the soft brown hairs on its chest
ripple, its haunches tamp down into a spring.
One move— and one of us will break the spell.