The bunnies are not what they seem. They gather in twilight fields, their fur catching the last gold of a dying sun, their pink noses twitching at the scent of storms we cannot yet smell. They are softness as omen, innocence as sleight-of-hand—watch them leap, all grace and whimsy, but count their shadows. Too many. One bunny, three shadows, each darker, each stretching toward a horizon we’ve been told not to name. They breed in the margins of our attention, their warrens threaded through the marrow of the earth, their tunnels not beneath us but inside us, mapping futures we refuse to gestate. Their eyes are polished obsidian, reflecting not faces but flickers: a child’s laugh trapped in a jar, a forest of crosses where no trees grow, a parade of empty strollers pushed by wind. They do not warn. They do not threaten. They are simply there, multiplying in the meadows of our denial, their tenderness a velvet gag. When the reckoning comes, it will not roar—it will nuzzle. A hundred thousand gentle mouths, hungry for the dandelion hearts we’ve left unguarded. Run if you want. They’ll still be there. They’ve always been there. Futures don’t blaze; they burrow.