Wish I were a March hare, out there on the moor, sniffing spring in the air, after the winter thaw.
My brain would be alert, my ears would quiver. From danger I would spurt, run down to the river.
I'd listen to the birds, piping in the grass, while white clouds roam in herds, not caring they will pass.
I'd leap through fields of sheep, free of fox and hawk, see old mole wake from sleep, where humans never walk.
My ears and hind legs long, my nose keen to scent, the wild where I belong, there I would make my dent.
Though I'm not a March hare, out there on the moor, I still breathe the spring air, after the winter thaw.