Shapeshift (Poetry)

Quiet in the grass I stretch,
belly down, bare thighs pressed
to its light dew dampness,
imagining I’m a hare
frozen in my form and testing
the morning air.

Sharp smells — animal musk,
perhaps a fox, I feel
the tension coil and search
the rippled field for signs.
A shadow passes, melts
into the hedge.

Slack sunlight weaves
green-yellow blades into a net,
the ground is warming,
flowers creaking open
for the bee, far-off
but on his way.