Yesterday, I nearly stepped on a dead rabbit. It was in the damp grass next to a road that, despite being a popular way to walk to campus, has no sidewalks, and, to avoid being run over, I was walking in the grass. There was a streak of blood coming out of one of the poor rabbit's eyes, and the flesh of its hind quarters were exposed, showing glistening muscle. It reminded me of when I was a kid and I saw skinned rabbits, and other animals, hanging in a butcher shop's window in the North End of Boston, maybe on a school field trip to see the Bunker Hill monument, and probably other things. I am sometimes surprised to meet a person and learn that they didn't grow up around reminders of the revolution of 1776, as they were all so ordinary and all around when I was a child. And the rabbit reminded me of Lillian Gish's line "It's a hard world for little things" from The Night of the Hunter, from 1957, which is such a great film. And I was sad. And I continued walking, and I took a little secluded path that I always take, just on the edge of campus, where, very often, I see a live rabbit or two minding their own business on the grass next to an intense mass of blackberry and other plants, but then I saw that the plants had all been drastically cut back and I was a little sad again, wondering if the rabbits would be able to find other places to live. And when I recall the rabbit's bloody eye, I am sad again today.
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