If a Rabbit Dies Alone in the Woods… by Sarah Gay
Read by Conner Arnold
. . . does it make a sound?
It lay on its side,
Faraway eyes moving further still.
Ribcage heaving, one ear
Folded crudely beneath its head.
Its paunch lay open like an abandoned book;
A scary story written in belly inks,
Scrawled unceremoniously
Across a bed of pine needles.
She imagined it had once been screaming,
That sound — something of a
Hellenistic painting, only one that moves
And twitches, and breathes like this.
It did not scream for its pale, quivering
Litter of maggot-kits, hungry in the burrow.
No, it was merely a rabbit.
Its capacity for grief was meager at best.
No, it screamed for its pain.
Please, I do not understand this.
I do not understand this. I do not-
Only it was a rabbit.
It did not have a concept of self.
She observed from the treeline, no closer.
She knew to approach was to impart
A responsibility upon herself
She could not uphold.
So she watched.
She gave witness to this curious thing,
Vouyer to this intimate display of desperation
And submission.
She watched until the desperation had passed completely,
And a solemn hush of resignation fell between them,
As if to say,
Stay and go gently, or leave and tread softly.
Troubled, she turned to walk away,
A branch breaking underfoot as
The pitiful creature slid from her view
And was put behind her, silent.
