Every night, I go home on a parkway that cuts through a wetland.
Usually it’s well after 6 p.m. and the light has started to bend softly.
A while ago, I started noticing that there was a growing number of chestnut brown rabbits that had emerged from the scrub to sit in the roadside grass, only a few feet from cars whizzing by.
My OCD insists that I count them as I go by. And announce the census to myself.
“ONE BUNNY! … TWO BUNNIES!…. THREEFOURFIVE BUNNIES!”
I am a grown-ass man.
This ritual brings me great joy. Immense joy. Joy I couldn’t have if I’d won the lottery. The night I counted 11 bunnies? I was euphoric for an hour.
Every night, I look forward to Bunny Corner. Last night was the first time I had tried to photograph the phenomenon.
As you can see, they all face the same way, outward looking at traffic. Like little bunny-shaped Easter Island figures.
I have yet to see any scamper or move. They seem not at all startled by the machines or the noise passing by.
They’re not always there. If it’s raining, no bunnies. If it’s too early in the evening or if it’s too hot, no bunnies. Conditions must be right for them to appear.
I don’t fear for their safety. They’re not getting hit by cars. I’ve yet to see a bunny carcass in the road. So they give me peace. It’s like the perfect punctuation on my day.
I liken them to the overcoat wearing guardians from “City of Angels,” watching over us, protecting us, saying good evening to us as the sun goes down for the night.
I’ve had a lot of coffee today.