I am reminded of the Czesław Miłosz poem “Encounter,” which recalls a simple moment, far back in time, when a companion pointed out a hare that ran out in front of his wagon as he rode through the countryside at dawn. “Oh my love,” he writes, “where are they, where are they going / The flash of a hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles? / I ask

Add wings to thy speed, sweet evening; and thou, moon, I charge thee, shroud thy beams at the moment when my Pleyel whispers love.