Written by Donovan L. Green,
November 17, 2008
His eyes too big to fit in his head. Light pouring in through his pupils. He watches a seed fall from a stalk of grass, tumble end over end. A trail of dust disperses in the air.
His nostrils expanded several times their normal size. His lungs expanding, stretching the skin that contains them. He can smell the slow decomposition of dead grass, an earthy odor, beneath his feet.
His heart pounding too hard to stay in his chest. Blood swelling his veins and arteries. Oxygen is driven to every fiber of muscle on his bones. He can feel every corpuscle of energy being delivered to his muscles tense and loaded.
His ears perked like individual radars. Every hair on his ears picking up vibrations in the air, sensitive to the slightest change in air density. Relaying information to his brain, he hears each wing beat of a tiny gnat.
Finally, the little rabbit blinks. He scans the horizon again. He listens for the heavy feet of the four-legged beast he evaded. He blinks again. He sniffs the air and tries to swallow, but his mouth is too dry.