In The Coil Of Things
In the change of years, in the coil of things,
In the clamour and rumour of life to be,
We, drinking love at the furthest springs,
Covered with love as a covering tree,
We had grown as gods, as the gods above,
Filled from the heart to the lips with love,
Held fast in his hands, clothed warm with his wings,
O love, my love, had you loved but me!
-- Swinburne
The purple bugloss was in rampant bloom over the meadow, and Hazel sneezed.
Late afternoon silflay was well under way, but Hazel found he didn't have much appetite. The tiny flowers were maddening, affecting, it seemed, Hazel alone. The constant sneezing was irritating him. To make matters worse, he'd lost a scuffle earlier with Thistle over the pretty little doe Mallow. He'd come out of it with nothing more than a scratched shoulder and severely wounded pride, but that was small comfort as he watched Thistle mount her.
And now, to top everything off, Fiver was beginning to natter and twitch again. Some nonsense about changes coming, and things he couldn't see clearly yet, and Hazel was not in the mood.
"Fiver, stop it," he snapped, and Fiver turned huge liquid eyes to him, eyes that were looking somewhere else for all that they fixed on Hazel.
"Leaves," Fiver muttered, "the leaves are blowing."
That was the last straw for Hazel. He nipped at Fiver's flank, making him jump, and then he did it again, herding Fiver back towards the nearest open run. Fiver scrambled away from Hazel, whimpering a bit, but Hazel pressed on, pursuing him down the dark of the run. They met no other rabbits; everyone else was out at silflay. Three turns and a drop down brought them to their burrow, opening off the main run, and Hazel pushed Fiver inside.
Hazel had never really been a great thinker. He was a rabbit of action, and that's what he took now. He leaped on Fiver, all his pent-up frustration suddenly boiling over into the urge to rut. He grasped Fiver tightly with his forepaws and thrust against him, once, twice, his back feet scrabbling for purchase in the packed dirt of the burrow. The third thrust found its way home, and the same yet not flashed through Hazel's mind, and then thought gave way entirely to instinct as Hazel pistoned rapidly into Fiver, tight heat and sliding fur and the shiver of his ears bent back.
It was over quickly as Hazel came with a cry, spilling inside Fiver, and he heard Fiver whimper, felt him shudder as well. Hazel slid out and collapsed beside Fiver, panting heavily into the close warm air.
Fiver turned his head and looked at Hazel. In the dim barely-there light that filtered down the run his eyes looked black and deep, like a pool of night without any stars.
Hazel nuzzled under Fiver's ear. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"
"No, you didn't," Fiver said softly. "Not at all."
"That's good, then," Hazel said with a yawn, the long fingers of sleep already reaching up for him. He felt heavy and stretched, and not at all irritated any more.
"The flowers are blooming," Fiver said, but Hazel didn't answer as he drifted off. It didn't make sense, after all. Some things didn't.
Some things, like springtime and Fiver, just were.
End.