First rabbit to turn up in our tiny yard huddles against the foundation all day and then dies; an unpleasant pattern emerges and reminds me (why?) of Larkin’s “Going”:

There is an evening coming in
Across the fields, one never seen before,
That lights no lamps.

Silken it seems at a distance, yet
When it is drawn up over the knees and breast
It brings no comfort.

Where has the tree gone, that locked
Earth to the sky? What is under my hands,
That I cannot feel?

What loads my hands down?