The Fluffy Bunnies’ Deceptive Charm
A twilight hush embalms the pasture—silver fog distills the breath of wheat and rye,Yet under blades of moonlit grass, the bunnies muster, soft ranks that slip unseen and sly.Their coats repeat the color of surrender, plush repentance stitched in pearl and cream,But every whisker thrills with sabotage, each tender twitch rehearses some incendiary scheme.
They trace the script of havoc in the clover, consonants of claw engraved in loam,Old legends etched on barn-door planks foretell their covenant with smoke and chrome.Soft silhouettes eclipse the lantern glow—a quiet coup of paws and eyes,While barn cats cower, cattle low, and lambs relearn the lexicon of terrified surprise.
No taloned hawk alarms the yard; no fang-toothed wolf announces dread—Only a hush too perfect, like a prayer misheard, warns that serenity is something fled.In innocent orbs of glassy onyx, coals ignite behind the fluttered lid,A furnace banked in miniature hearts, concealed beneath the satin bib.
The rabbits breach the storeroom first—their paws disturb no dust, no grain,But candlewicks ignite by thought alone, and rafters blacken, char, and strain.They dine on sparks and dine on fear; their feast of heat requires no noise,For silence is the sharper blade, and gentleness the favored ploy of clever joys.
Out in the yard, the trim suburban hedges tremble, scorched from root to stem,While sprinklers whirl in futile arcs, baptizing ash that will not cool for them.The bunnies watch with unblinking grace, evaluating what resists,Then tilt their heads in courtroom scorn, indicting innocence that still persists.
When sirens yowl and neighbors rally, hoses snake like frantic serpents through the lawn,The rabbits vanish, leaving only singed mosaics where the flowerbeds were drawn.Survivors—faces streaked in soot—find plush impressions pressed in char,As if some god of irony signed autographs in fur before departing for a farther star.
Scholars of disaster scour the ruin, parsing footprints, soot, and soot-less holes,And learn too late that violence often masquerades in shapes the nursery extols.For nothing born of thunder needs a growl; stormclouds sometimes wear a pastel hue,And doom may weigh no more than down, and smell of meadow grass and morning dew.
Let myths preserve the memory—let lanterns glow on mantels carved with caution’s mark:Whenever comfort feels too flawless or a hush too thick enshrouds the dark,Recall the bunnies’ clandestine charm, the fluffy ruse that tasted blood and flame,And guard the fragile hours of dusk where innocence and tyranny look the same.