Marching down the wintry road, it occurred to me that roads and marching are the instruments of war. It was a logging road, after all. I was just out for a walk—but with what murderous intent? Stride, stride, stride... what fight was I determined to wage, the path cleared for me into the heart of the wilderness?
True, I was filled with a sullen anger, over personal affronts: the boss hadn’t returned my call; my wife was in a bad mood; I couldn’t make any clear decisions despite a morning poring over the budget. I hated being left hanging, not knowing what was to come.
When I realized what I must look like, in the eyes of the forest, it gave me pause. In fact I stopped in my tracks—and turned straight off into the pathless, snowy woods. The strange thing was, I kept right on marching, though with considerable gymnastic effort now required to twist around and straddle over the bent saplings and fallen trees.
What a crashing idiot I was, in that still, silent forest!
Then a sudden flash caught my eye, white on white. A rabbit, teasing, first hopping out from behind a log, then turning back under, and bounding away.
I followed, a little way, until my guide vanished... leaving me with the mystery of not-knowing, pen in hand.
The woods are silent again—and so am I.
The air is brighter now.
YOU ARE READING
White Rabbit
Non-FictionA man goes marching up the road, as if to war... then tramps into the tangled forest... until he is stopped in his tracks.
