Rabbit River

Some stories are followed.

This one is entered.

It begins simply.

A rabbit.
A river.

And something not yet named,
but already felt.

The rabbit stood at the edge of the water.
She had not come this far before.

The current moved without asking anything of her.
It did not call her forward.
It did not ask her to stay.

Still, something in her remained.

Not frozen.
Not certain.

Just… there.

Rabbit River is not a story about where to go.

It is a story about what begins to change
when staying… becomes possible.

Some forms of quiet are not emptiness.
They are places where something begins returning.