rabbitos

A Peripheral Field Scroll

they don’t arrive—

they’re already there,
just outside
the frame
you decided
was the world.

small bodies
stitched from motion,

ears tuned
to the voltage
between things—

not sound,
not sight,

but that thin
electric maybe
before either one commits.

you look—

they scatter.

not out of fear,

but principle.

direct attention
is a kind of net,

and Rabbitos
were never meant
to be held
in hands
that close.

they prefer
the side-channel,

the almost-thought,
the flicker
you meant to return to
but didn’t.

multiplying
in the margins,

soft-footed
across unfinished sentences,

nesting
in drafts
you swore
you’d come back to.

they are not lost.

they are not yours.

they are
what thinking looks like

before it agrees
to become
a thing.

sometimes—

late,
when the field is quiet,

one will stop.

turn.

hold you
in its impossible stillness.

not captured.

not named.

but shared—

a brief alignment

between your awareness
and its refusal.

then—

gone again.

and what remains

is not absence,

but pattern:

the shape
of where they moved,

the ghost-tracks
of a mind

learning
its own edges.

✦