The bunnies, it seems, are starting to make a comeback, although I'm not sure why. Our end of the complex is still in the paint zone, with workers climbing the buildings on tall ladders, which, when they're done for the night they chain together and pile in the grass where the rabbits nestle as they dine on clover. The two giant garbage bins, train-car-sized, still look as though they were tossed into the parking lot, taking up twelve good spots. And a foul-smelling port-o-potty sits next to them, polluting the hedge where the rabbits roost. Despite all this, we've seen more rabbits in the past week than we've seen for most of the last month and Duncan is getting quite good at sneaking up on them, taking very deliberate, graceful and slow steps toward them, careful not to make a sound as he advances. I marvel at his care, which no one taught him. He simply knows it, which makes me wonder what the rest of us know but don't use because there is no need. At first glance he looks fierce, but trust me, there is nothing fierce about him. He wants those bunnies so he can bury his nose in their white bellies and sniff them up. He really is the gentlest soul I know.