The Hunt
No rabbit is born fearing wolves.
It follows the larger footprints through the grass because that is what small creatures do. They believe the older ones know where the briars end, where the river shallows, where the forest loosens its grip. Trust became an instinct, not a lesson to be learned.
The wolf knows this, so it does not lunge.
It waits for the rabbit to step close enough that the distance between faith and ruin becomes no wider than a breath.
The meadow does not protest.
The wind continues combing through the grass. Birds embroider the afternoon with indifferent hymns. Even the trees stand like solemn witnesses who have forgotten that witnessing and intervening are not the same thing.
Then the jaws close.
Upon the flesh.
Upon the hushed certainty that the world is arranged in kindness.
The rabbit learns that teeth are patient things. They need not tear to leave a wound. They need only hold long enough for fear to sink beneath the skin, where it hardens like a splinter too deep to draw out.
When the wolf lets go, the forest has already forgiven itself.
The rabbit cannot.
It leaves no blood upon the earth.
It carries it inward.
Years pass, yet the hunt continues with borrowed paws.
Every rustling leaf becomes the promise of another mouth. Every outstretched hand must first survive the trial of hidden fangs. The rabbit no longer runs because it sees wolves.
It runs because it has learned that wolves need not look like wolves.
They may resemble shelter.
They may speak with familiar voices.
They may walk beside you so gently that, by the time instinct finally screams, it is no longer warning you of danger.
It is mourning what trust has already surrendered.
There are hunters who kill only once.
There are others who leave their prey breathing.
The latter are remembered longest.
For the rabbit spends the rest of its life carrying invisible bite marks, returning each dawn to a meadow that has long forgotten the hunt, while its own heart, poor trembling creature, continues to beat as though it is still caught between the wolf’s teeth.
– annika r. y.
