Rabbit lives in the moon.
It’s a lonely life, and a busy one.
Every day he gathers the herbs for his potions.
Every night he grinds them in his mortar.
It is centuries since any gods have come to him, but he works as hard as before.
Grind, grind, grind, goes the pestle, and he hears words in it.
Sometimes other people come drifting slowly by.
Cain rows past in his bush of thorns on his way to the Mare Imbrium.
“Hello, Hare,” he says. “What news?”
“No news,” says Rabbit. “Nothing to report. How’s your wife?”
“Oh,” says Cain. “Well.”
He’s never been good at small talk.
No bedside manner to speak of.
“That’s good. Well, you can tell her I said hi.”
“She’ll like that.”
And like that Cain is gone, his lantern held high.
There was one person Rabbit liked, a short, balding man in a green coat.
He had a pendulum that he was following, and he didn’t stop to talk.
That Rabbit understood.
When he sleeps, he sees the golden swing of the pendulum, and thinks about his friend.
2 thoughts on “Grist for the Mill”
Just wanted to say that I really enjoy your writing. You have a really versatile style and come up with some wonderful ideas. I just discovered your blog a few days ago, and I'm working my way through all of the older stories.
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