The Brush Pile

The rabbit showed up early that fall. I was standing in front of the window that overlooks the tiny patch of green grass I’ve deigned to cultivate in my two acres of overgrown wildlife habitat. I may have been holding a cup of coffee. And there he was, munching on clover. Peter Cottontail. 

I love cottontail rabbits. I grew up in the Midwest watching them, examining their nests, and hunting them. I gathered food I thought they’d like and left it for them to eat. I followed their distinctive triangular tracks in the winter snow. And now one had evidently taken up residence in my back yard. I was thrilled.

That spring he took a mate. When I saw the two of them together my hopes soared. Baby rabbits! I couldn’t wait to see my yard full of the little guys, hopping around in fraternal solidarity.

I decided to build them a home. Every couple years I trim away the dead wood in the hundreds of trees I’ve planted, and until recently I’ve piled the slash a hundred feet or so from my house and burned it. But this year, I decided, the brush pile would stay. Rabbits love brush piles. It would be their new home. 

The following spring, however, my rabbit was gone. There were no Mr. and Mrs. Rabbit munching clover in my yard; no tiny babies hopping about in their wake. That winter there was no rabbit at all. After the first snowfall, I checked the brush pile for tracks, but found none. Yeah, I know. It was just a rabbit. And the hawks, and the neighborhood cats, and yada yada. But I still missed the goddamn rabbit.  

This summer, I cut out more dead wood and added it to the brush pile. It has become a fine staging area for my house wrens, who use it as a way point on their darting flights around my yard. 

And then, a few days ago, I was sitting on the porch with a glass of wine. It was summer. I spotted a flash of brown from the corner of my eye. And there, munching on clover in my yard, was a rabbit. Was it the same one? He gazed at me with unblinking black eyes and then darted under the giant spruce I planted many, many years ago. Would he be back? Would he find the brush pile I’d built just for him? For now, all I can do is wait.