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The note, coming suddenly amid the squeaks and
protests of the pipe, startled Tas. It was soft, gentle, and
reminded him of the sigh of a mourning dove. He moved
his numb fingers over the holes, drew another breath, and
found the note again. And then he found another, higher,
and a third, lower. Almost it was a tune, and Tas caught the
change. He tried again.
There was a rabbit in the storm. Caught away from its
burrow, too young to know that it must dig into the snow
for its insulating warmth, it scurried this way and that, as
though it might outrun the cold. Home! screamed through
the rabbit's veins with the frantic pumping of panic-driven
blood. Home! But home, a burrow snug and warm,
smelling of good brown earth and the comforting odor of
safety, was too far away.
Tas heard the rabbit's frightened squeak above the
faltering tune he played. How could he have heard the
rabbit's cry? He didn't know, but he squeezed his eyes
tightly shut, let the pipe fall silent, and lost the image and
the sound. Before he could think of absurdity, before he
could decide that the pipe had nothing to do with the rabbit,
he hunched over it again and continued to play.
There was a deer, its antlers almost too heavy with the
snow's burden to bear
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