At Your Service, Ma'am.

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The miss isn't prone to wake

Heavy is the sleep that takes

You must do what you can, everything you can

You must understand, your plans are nothing to bands of ennui and melancholia

The miss is of ill temperament, every sunrise sacrament.

Restore her smile with ease and tranquility.

Stress in the morning ill begets nobility.

Whether it early or late, fate will find her.

Abate her her insolence.

Forgive her slothfulness.

Slow is the water that moves mountain.

Persisting is the heart unmet with contentment.

Please, ease the little star to light.

Make pleasant her coming to life.

Caretaking for Miss - midday

The princess fast tires of the wires she walks

Please make clear the royal agenda, and she will amend the worries of fief and foe.

Please do not fret if you are not met with her gaze.

Every subject glows the crown

Every word should lighten a frown.

The princess would like to know what you would ask of her plans

She will figure out where you stand.

Make warm her bed, and steady the stead.

Do not make dread of the return.

Caring for the miss - evenings

Invite her you must, and fright you may not just.

You may take her in moments of solace, for her own good.

You must entertain yourself when she does not, and you must train into a wealth of hearth.

You must forgive fanciful folly, and you must forgive dalliances and tolls on your heart.

You must foretell of pleasantry, and you must not forlorn her own.

She means what she says to the one at her side, it matters to her glide that you believe.

Believe in yourself, for all you can do.

Nurturing the glow is thanks first to you.

Please mind your miss.

A stray rabbit helping my bf dig a hole in the garden this past spring 

A green log stretches out in front of her, an older tree the timber company must have missed. When it fell it cut a rare clearing in the overdense second growth, but already new trees were sprouting from their decayed aunt. She positioned herself just outside the edge and waited.

And waited.

And waited...

And there it was.

Its arms were drawn and fractious, gashes in the green-black canvas, and each of it eight legs were too. The body was long, serpentine, coiling in on itself and uncoiling again independent of its limbs. None of that weak and waning moonlight could be reflected in the depths of its deep-shadow-self. Slowly it brought itself onto the log, effortlessly bringing those eight legs under itself in a shift from squamate to cervid grace. The head betrayed no features, but it undoubtedly bore into its observer with a baleful and vicious gaze.

CLACK!