The black rabbit crouches low, nose gently nudging into the dirt. Beneath him, the soft earth crumbles. With each step forward he takes, his paws flake up more and more soil until he finds himself running.

The dark blades of grass around him block any light the moon might provide, the air around him as suffocating as a shadow. The wind is cold against his fur. He gets a chill. The kind of chill that he got on brisk autumn evenings before the first early snow. The kind that made him crave the comfort of being buried beneath a fresh blanket, powder-soft. The kind that shakes your skin when your heart sinks in your chest, your lungs won’t fill up, your soul is too overwhelming for your body.

He continues onward, his paw catching uncomfortably on a pebble. He persists. The black rabbit has not been caught yet, and you aren’t worthy of being the one to break that streak. The foliage balayages into a field of flowers, stems thicker and harder to run in.

He slows to a stop. Crouches down low. A sniff, a shift of an eye.

He isn’t stupid; he is as cool as the cabbage he steals. Not the pumpkins, autumn’s offering. Not the carrots, buried deep. Not the beets, bloodied like a broken heart. The cabbage. 

But cabbages aren’t flower bulbs, and he is out of place within this field. He curls up around a thick stem, shrinking until his midnight fur is but a stain on your garden. He can steal your weeds instead, if you want, if you let him - he can chew on dandelions, bouquet them between his teeth, carry them home to boil into tea.

You drop your shovel. Stare into the void that is the black rabbit, pick the flower that he has chosen. Slice up cabbage for him, serve it to him on a plate. He crouches low, nose gently nudging into the ribboned leafy green. Beneath him, you crumble.