Rabbiting

The snow's sweet and crisp underfoot, and the trees have finally given up shedding it from their branches - they're standing straight again. I think the evergreens are happiest about it, but it's hard to be sure.

The people on the inside are still frightened; they scurry around building their little walls and squinting out through big glass panes. It makes me want to laugh at them, and show them that what they think is glass is really just ice, that the snow's there inside their walls with them already.

I don't, though. Mommy always said it wasn't polite to mess with other people's delusions.

Rabbiting

My husband just brought me chocolate. It's still dripping. He wanted to open up the house and make little people truffles, but I told him no. It's something about the day. I can't remember. I should remember.

Trying to remember makes me cold, even though the snow doesn't.

Rabbiting

Peel it a little at a time - it's okay, dig your thumb right in there, the sections will split but you want them to. The rind is bitter; the fruit's just sour, so peel the rind off. Now go ahead and split the rest of the sections, right down to the core. Mind the juice; it stings.

The flesh is good, all the stringy pulpy little bits of it in their separate little chambers and veins. Sour, but good. Don't let your eyes water; they'll see you.

And there they are. The seeds.

Breathe on them gently and nestle them in place - there, in the cloud of dust, in the sea of darkness. Let them gather the dust to them and grow. Tiny little things, aren't they? They'll settle down, they'll get better.

Every time you harvest the stars, you have to make sure new ones are going to grow in their place. Or else the field will thin out, and then what will you do?