On my way to work yesterday at 6:15 in the morning, I noticed a rabbit in the street just off the median in the center of the road — just sitting there. In the midst of traffic I could not stop or didn’t even have the time to think to stop, as the rabbit decided to cross the road right beneath my moving car. I grasped the wheel firmly, all my muscles tightening, my shoulders hunching upward, biting my lower lip, urging the cosmos to help the rabbit get across safely. There was a soft thump at the bottom center of the car but not beneath my wheels.
Then I looked to the right and saw the rabbit almost as if an alien had inhabited his body. He was jumping like a kangaroo at least four feet in the air but at the peak of each leap his body was turned in a different direction— first the feet upward, then his bottom upward, then his side upward, then his feet upward again. The jumps continued down the sidewalk in front of the police station.
My heart was racing but I didn’t stop the car, still in the flow of traffic moving quickly. I continued driving to school, very shaken, knowing that even if I had stopped the car I wasn’t sure what I would have done to help the rabbit or even if I would have been able to catch up with it. It all happened so quickly though the replay inside is definitely in slow motion.
And all through the day yesterday the image of the violently convulsing and spasming rabbit haunted me. The soft thump beneath the car is still with me too. This morning on my way to work, I scanned the street where the ill-fated crossing occurred, but there was no evidence of the rabbit. The only evidence is still leaping topsy turvy inside me.