The Bayou Bunnies’ Easter Feast
On Easter in Belle Perdue, where the live oaks lean low,
and the Dog River moves with a warm, muddy flow,
the big pots come out and the propane flames sing,
and the smell of cayenne touches everything.
The crawfish go in by the bagful and pound,
and the boil rolls up with a glorious sound.
Plates pile up high and the eating begins,
with butter and corn and a whole lot of kin.
Now when you're eating crawfish, there's one thing to know,
a straight tail means trouble from the get-go.
That crawfish was gone before hitting the pot,
the meat turns all grainy… it ain't a good lot.
So folks set them aside at the edge of the wood,
returning what's spoiled back to where it is good.
Not trash in a heap, just a quiet small deed
the bayou gives to us, we give back what we don't need.
Now tucked in the reeds where the moss drapes the cypress,
three bayou bunnies stay perfectly quiet.
Bright eyes in the shadows, small noses that know
the one day God lets them eat crawfish...and so
they wait while the fiddles strike up and folks dance,
while children grow drowsy and old men tell tales,
till the edge of the woods fills with straight tails set right…
then out hop the bunnies into Easter night.
One hums as she's sorting, one twitches her nose,
one checks every tail like a cook who just knows.
Their baskets fill up in the soft firefly glow
the best Easter supper the bunnies will know.
But watching from shadow with sharp, shining eyes
is Peter Fox, silent and staking his prize
of information, just watching the scene,
calculating exactly what all of it means.
He shows up each Easter. The bunnies know why.
They feel his gaze land like a hand on their spine.
But they aren't the foolish kind, no, not these three.
They leave one straight tail at the base of a tree.
A mercy portion. A peace offering small.
Go on, Brother Fox. That one's yours. That is all.
He lifts it up careful, gives one courtly bow,
and slips back to darkness beneath cypress bough.
The stars blink awake through the live-oak lace,
night settles gentle on the old gathering place.
The fire burns low and the last fiddle fades,
and three little bunnies melt back into shade.
Belle Perdue never knew what watched from the trees,
or who took the straight tails set out by degrees.
They only knew this: what the bayou bestows,
you honor by giving back what the bayou knows.
Each Easter the old little rhythm repeats
the boil, the straight tails, the small mercy treats.
Same river, same moss, same warm evening air…
…and if you look closely,
you just might see ears.
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