The bunny and the alchemist.
In the soft curl of moss and mist, where stories are not spoken but felt, the rabbits tell it this way…
An aging woman, with hands like worn pages of a well loved book, brushes a tiny bug from the cheek of her baby girl.
The gesture is small, but in the language of rabbits, it echoes like a bell through the forest.
The girl reaches instinctively into those worn hands not just for balance, but for knowing. For remembering something older than words.
A love language that crosses dimensions.
A connection where words fall away.
The woman, easily distracted, shifts her focus…
“There you are, Charlie,” she says softly. Then, with a smile that bends time just a little, “or as I like to call you… Chuck.” She then yells at a baby owl, you’re going down now!
The forest leans in.
“Where is Joey?” she wonders aloud.
The rabbits twitch their ears.
Joey, they know.
Joey is a mover of things.
A shifter of edges.
A quiet rearranger of what was just there a moment ago.
“He doesn’t pay me much attention,” she says not with sadness, but with recognition. “You see, Joey moves things… and he better put them back.”
The stream carries that thought away, bending divine light into reflection.
Not far off, Gypsy walks barefoot through the woods. The earth knows her steps. She leaves small offerings of petals, breath, a whisper of thanks, placing them between roots and stones.
She is ushering in spring, the rabbits say, but more than that…
She is releasing the old year.
Letting it fall behind her like a shed skin, like a story that has already done its work.
She pauses then, turning just slightly, her voice carried not through air, but through root and wind and memory:
“Don’t forget me,” Gypsy calls gently to the woman.
“And be sure to dream about us…
in a wildflower-filled field.”
A quiet smile finds the woman, as if she’s heard something just beyond sound.
“Good for you, Gypsy,” she says softly.
For a moment, the forest holds its breath.
And somewhere, already, that field begins to bloom
with an everlasting love that simply cannot be forgotten.
The woman notices Denny…
Denny always sits very still, she says
Listening.
Because the rabbits are telling the truth now.
They tell how the days May feel the same.
How the patterns merely seem to repeat.
The woman gestures softly. “Did you see that cat chasing the chicken?”
Denny nods, understanding the rabbit’s message of the nature of reality
and how everything can seem like the same trail, different morning.
A paradox held gently, like a small creature in careful hands.
Because in rabbit language, the lesson is never in the sameness,
but in the subtle shift.
A name spoken softly.
A memory asked to be kept.
A dream planted like a seed.
And somewhere in it all…
Love, is quiet and constant.