Race Between a Rabbit and a Turtle

There was a carrot
in the middle of the woods,
sat between two roots.
It belonged to no one.

The rabbit found it first.
The turtle saw it too.
They stood beside the carrot.

The rabbit offered a race.
“Losing is a social construct,”
the turtle nodded.
“But I will run anyway.”

The rabbit said nothing.
Its fur turned black.

They parted.
The rabbit went left.
The turtle went right.

They followed instinct.
The paths bent toward the same place.

The rabbit saw the turtle often.
The turtle did not see the rabbit.
Its sight was fixed
on the thought of the carrot.

By the time the turtle arrived,
the carrot was buried in leaves.
Some were green.
Some were purple.

The rabbit was already there.
“I found this mushroom,” it said.
“Now the carrot is yours.”
The carrot was larger than before.
The rabbit had grown small.

The turtle nodded.
The carrot smelled like soil.
The turtle carried it to a pot.
The water was already burning.

The carrot sank slowly
into the boundary between life and death.
It gave no sound.
Its integrity was long gone.

The turtle stirred the pot.
The water lost its clarity.
The orange was scooped into an old cloth bag.
A leak trailed behind the turtle as it walked.

No one followed.
The turtle kept its eyes on home.

When it arrived,
it set the bag down,
reached for its keys,
and poured the last of the liquid
onto the wooden door.