When the ears light up in the last light you can see through. The hare in the high grass goes as still as your breathing. His ears are alight. You are listening too. The wren arrives in the aural field like an alarm as loud as a god, the one you long for, the one with answers. The wren says cheerily, cheerily, cheerily. Fields away another answers like the echo chamber in your chest, the hare with the ears of light still— in arrest. He’s as afraid of you as you are, tuning the last light.