Rabbiting

The little people are all curled up in bed. Little ice houses and little snow blankets and they don't know what to do about the trees.

We fed them chocolate. They didn't seem to mind.

Eat this.

Drink this.

Take up your place among the seeds of the stars.

There's snow outside the window, dim gray-blue in the night, but it's still crisp and clean and untouched on the neighbor's roof, and sweet to look on. The quiet wood panelling of the walls, even rhythms of vertical lines: a dead forest to live in. Outside the window, when it's light out, snow clings to the branches of every tree I can see - except for the evergreens standing straight and tall down the block.

The air's still sweetened and made sharp by the rind of the grapefruit I peeled and ate like an orange, earlier. The heart-shaped box of chocolate my husband brought home is long gone, too; we made a game out of trying to find the ones with nuts, so they wouldn't break his teeth, and somehow this 'accidentally' worked its way into eating the whole box.

He's asleep now, breathing quietly in the next room curled up in bed under a soft blanket the same gray-blue in daylight that the snow is at night.

There are worlds in every moment, wonders in every world.