Squirrel and Rabbit Go On a Picnic

By Peter Bowden


The checkered blanket was small, the plates mismatched, and the cake slightly tilted, but none of that mattered. Squirrel poured tea with a careful paw while Rabbit and his cousin, Hare, leaned close, their ears brushing like old friends trading secrets. Nearby, butterflies danced slow circles in the sun, and a sparrow perched as if waiting for its own cup. It was a picnic without pomp, just the soft hush of joy.

They didn’t speak much, and they didn’t need to. The chocolate cake had been made with care, the kind passed down from woodland kitchens long forgotten. Hare nibbled delicately while Rabbit clutched his coat a little tighter, warmed more by company than tea. Squirrel, ever precise, wiped a crumb from the corner of his mouth and smiled at nothing in particular.

The afternoon stretched long, like a nap after rain. And though time nudged forward—quiet as the bluebird near their feet—they sat a little longer, held in that gentle pause. Because sometimes, the best moments come dressed not in grandeur, but in crumbs, cocoa, and the soft rustle of whiskers at tea.

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