the year of the Rabbit is gearing up for its last leap.

The streets are unclean, which means they’re covered

in ten centimeters of snow and broken backbones, failed

resolutions. Don’t you feel the holiday spirit? Last night

I dreamt of a hare in my headlights. The tiny mammal

jumped in front of the car and stayed. Not looking.

The LED illuminated the shivering gray skin, the falling

petals of snow. In the spotlight, we see things for what

they are. Convex amber eyes of the animal. No fear.

No worry. Still. I was born in the year of the Rabbit but

Mary, I could not stop that car. The hands became not

mine, the steering wheel exhaled blue fire. The gas

pedal would not budge. I tried to catch the hare’s glance,

scare it into a sprint. I cried. I bled. The car approached

rapidly and quiet. Mary, when the hare’s eyes met my

chameleon ones, he did not run. The snow continued

to flake. I have never seen courage this lonely.