Once there was a rabbit. She lived in a wooden box in the fig tree forest.
She ate timothy hay and pellets and drank clean water from a little crock that had pictures of rabbits' silouettes on the sides.
She was kind and sweet and beautiful. She was a rabbit who knew her place in the world.
Sometimes, the door to her wooden box would open wide and she would hop out the door into the garden surrounding the fig tree forest.
She would leap and fling her body around and feel the earth beneath her rabbit feet. She would snif the ground. The plants. The air. She would look around for other creatures to connect with.
Kind dogs. Vocal bluejays. Humans who happened near.
She would feel alive. Feel great love. Feel like life was very good indeed.
Eventually, she would hop back into the door of the wooden box and settle in to her nest of fuzzy carpet and hay and she would snuggle herself into the box and wait for the future with contentment in the present.
She ate timothy hay and pellets and drank clean water from a little crock that had pictures of rabbits' silouettes on the sides.
She was kind and sweet and beautiful. She was a rabbit who knew her place in the world.
Sometimes, the door to her wooden box would open wide and she would hop out the door into the garden surrounding the fig tree forest.
She would leap and fling her body around and feel the earth beneath her rabbit feet. She would snif the ground. The plants. The air. She would look around for other creatures to connect with.
Kind dogs. Vocal bluejays. Humans who happened near.
She would feel alive. Feel great love. Feel like life was very good indeed.
Eventually, she would hop back into the door of the wooden box and settle in to her nest of fuzzy carpet and hay and she would snuggle herself into the box and wait for the future with contentment in the present.
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