Yesterday my husband called me outside to see the rabbit making its slow way down our street. It was being stalked with intense vigilance by our neighbors’ ginger cat, though it seemed unaware of that. They were about the same size — the rabbit fancily colored and tame enough to let me get close, but not so tame I could pick it up. I was able to dissuade the cat, but could manage no more. When last seen it was headed into the state park where the grasses are high and its odds of survival low. It died, if it died, a free rabbit. I don’t imagine there is much consolation in that, but I’m trying to pretend that there is. Like the end of Braveheart. Sort of like that.