On the last morning of the season, the burrow does something it won’t do any other morning: it tells you where it goes.
“Summer,” says the rabbit, “is just spring with its sleeves rolled up. I don’t disappear. I go down — deeper than the cellar, past where the depth gauge sticks, into the cool dark where seeds dream about next year. It’s very quiet down there. I do a lot of napping. I’m extremely good at napping.”
“You built a universe that wakes up,” says the smallest egg, which wasn’t found until the very last day and is still a little smug about it. “Most places just stay whatever they were. You should be proud of that.” Then the rabbit thumps its foot twice, and for a moment the whole burrow smells like rain and cut grass.
gentle rain and early birds, synthesized live — no audio files, just like the music box.