The Rabbit and the Donkey.

The rabbit looked at the donkey, saw something in them he could not understand. He was so quick, had tried every vegetable out there, had sniffed every corner of every rock lying upon the desert, knew by heart of the path of stars and sun and moon, and often spoke with the wind of history and world events.

And there was the donkey, static, balancing upon four boney legs, staring at his own feet, trying to find a way to get his whole body in the shadow beneath him. His tongue hung lazily upon his bottom lip, rough and dry, like a shot of cheap vodka. It stared and gazed and contemplated the shadow, a big smile stretching wide from ear to ear, his heart warmed in the hope that the existence of the shadow lifted in his chest.

Every other minute he looked to the side and there saw the rabbit peering back at him from his hole in the ground or from his hiding place under a rock. The rabbit glared. Its dilated, little pink eyes hated the sight, yet there he stood, beneath the rock or in the hole, asking himself in that quick pace rabbits have with everything, the purpose of the donkey and the essence of his happiness.

He would think it was a matter of size. The small rabbit was proud of his short stature, fur, and jumps. He felt sorry for the donkey, because the donkey could not jump. It felt a need to humiliate the laughing donkey, of invading the donkey’s stupid world and hopping all over his back, then biting a few asparagus sticks and finishing the job off with pissing all over the donkey’s ankles and stupid shadow.

For the rabbit rules and the donkey sucks. Or at least that’s what was heard through the bunny grapevine. The donkey never knew of this, and never felt the desire to ask. Throughout the day it stared at his shadow, big lips smiling big. He could step on the glaring rabbit any day, but he knew he wouldn’t. He knew he had no blame in the rabbit’s unhappiness, for the rabbit’s unhappiness had no basis except for that old wives’ tale that stated stature dictated morality.