In a secret field nesting on a hill,
Where time it seems is standing still,
A warren of little rabbits sleep:
In burrows very quiet they keep.
At evening on the grass they graze-
Not on lettuce leaves, their craze.
No shoes they wear on dewy grass,
Nor do they ever use a looking glass;
White tailed, furred without a pocket:
Can disappear as fast as any rocket.
Matt Mooney
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/rabbits-4/
