Those games we play in the fields of “is it a hare or a clod of earth?” are fast disappearing into the lengthening grass. The green growth that lapped over hare toes, then rose past thighs, is rising still, for no one cuts these blades of barley or wheat.
The animals that ran off the winter in open country were impelled by hormones into fractious sociability in early spring. On the last day of March, we spotted 18 hares and two undetermined lumps in five minutes. Now they have reverted to their habitual natures in solitary, and in a kind of confinement.
Among the quickening crops, the hares are being driven into tractor tramlines – the bare strips that became partings, and then corridors. By the opening of summer, their runways will be all but closed over, tunnels walled by forests of stiffening stalks. The other day, a trammelled hare sped down one of these tracks in parallel to the path. I saw in its bucking strides the intermittent flashes of rump, face and ears, and noticed its head turn for an over-the-shoulder look at the world outside.
Earlier this morning, a hare caught the drift of human and lolloped out over a late-sown, belly-tickling crop towards the centre of its field. The feeding may be better around the well-vegetated margins, but a hare on the edge is always ready to bolt. Had it been in the middle already, it might have given a knowing curtsey, a make-myself-small shrinking down into the ground as if to say, “I can see you”. Or it might have lifted its head and raised its ears. Either way, the hare at a distance senses our movement before we see it, and signals that any chase would be futile.
This animal was effecting a reluctant shamble and stop, shuffle, stop and stare, meander out of harm’s way. It reached the area where it might have been one of five animals jostling for mating rights a few weeks before, then it squatted down. I stared across at two tips. Ears of a hare today, ears of corn tomorrow.
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