Cocooned in the under-earth, for the rabbit, winter’s implacable onslaught is escaped. If she dreams, it is not in wonder, but in certitude: she dreams of spring and an end to the crystalline chandeliers of frosted water hanging from the underboughs of the trees. An end to the dirty sludge, the detritus of campers, hikers and walkers who tramped the ground some four feet above her hibernation.
She waits coiled in the burrow for spring when the fire of the
sun lifts her head, she resurfaces to her senses, and life begins anew.
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