What now?
How should I know? I just got here, replied the twitchy, toothy Rabbit to the Bees. I need to find a hole. I’m freezing my tail off. Off bounded the rabbit, like that, he did, his hop more scurrying since the sun was setting and in a hurry he was.
The Bees are up in arms. They feel threatened by the Bears, but the Bears are flabby and round, and eager to slumber so this angst and fuss makes little sense. However, the Bees rarely see the bigger picture—a hive mind will do that, the way of thinking they do. Honey thieves, they screech, the Bees. Hive wreckers! Anxious ahead of the game, the Bees, all the time it seems.
When the Bears wake, all hell could break loose, no doubt. Not lose, as the Chipmunks spell it. The Sparrows look down on bad spellers as they meticulously layer insulation in their nest. Twigs, Grass, and bits of thread do just fine. Thinking ahead, the Sparrows do well at that and will sacrifice a feather here and there, too, if need be. They detest the Crows; the Sparrows do. Crows don't plan; the Sparrow's condemnation is well known, and no amount of debate will move them off it; the lousy planning Crows do.
The Trees take little interest in these petty disputes and are listless and bored, standing around, rarely turning their heads. They don’t give a rip, the Trees. Been there, seen it, done it, that’s the common opinion between the big fellas as the sap hardens and the roots spread, knotty toes poking a rising frost line. The Trees don’t fret for nothing, except, maybe a chainsaw.
The same goes for the Gravel, Wind, and Sloshing Creek; polishing stones to glass in a million years is its obsession and interest. The Sloshing Creek will wear you down, no doubt. Tomorrow is yesterday again, so stop worrying. They sing a saintly chorus unmatched in these here parts. Who needs a watch when you have time on your side? The Grass understands.
OK, say the Bees, but they’re calling for snow tonight. Haven’t you heard?
We know. Grunt the Gravel, the Wind, and the Sloshing Creek in unison. There's nothing we can do about it.
Nothin’ we can do, repeats the Grass. The Grass is not an original thinker but reliable and likable in a spread-too-thin kind of way. All things to all things the Grass is.
Protect your Queen. She is your heart. Protect her or die trying. The Gravel, the Wind, and the Sloshing Creek gaze at the sky. They don’t sweat the little things, no sir, but they are good at advising the Bees.
See you in the Spring. The Grass, now standing tall, feels the beetles, ants, and burrowing worms at its feet. See you in the Spring, the Grass repeats. We’ll be here waiting to see how it all works out.
And up high on a solitary peak, two mountain goats clack, snort steam, and butt heads. A single snowflake is released from God’s chalice and parachutes to the flat face of an immovable granite boulder—then an undetectable shudder is released, a yawn, and it begins again.