The Unwritten
“The page was white before the hand. The hand was flesh before the name.”
Before the first story,the fox had no opinionabout itself.
The tortoise did not race.It moved.The hare did not lose.It slept.The finish was a linedrawn after the fact.
The crow was not thirstyin the way of parables.It was just dry.It found stones.It dropped them.Water rose,and suddenly it was clever,suddenly it was lesson,suddenly it was no longera bird with a pebblebut a symbolwearing feathers.
The lamb by the streamdid not know gentle.It drank.The wolf drank downstream,same water,same thirst,same dark tongueparting the same surface.
The hunter camewith a name for each,‘innocence’ for the one‘guilt’ for the other.
The lamb drank.The wolf drank.The streamremembered neither.
But the lambdid not knowit was spared.The wolf did not knowit was damned.
But what if the stones were just stones?What if the race was just running?What if the streamdid not carewho drank from it first?
The page was whiteBefore the hand.The hand was fleshBefore the name.