The forest was a cathedral of green, and Bambi learned its hymns. He learned that the creek’s chatter was gossip, that the owl’s hoot was a law, and that Thumper, a rabbit with a stutter and a drumstick foot, was the worst secret-keeper in the glade. “You s-shouldn’t eat those red berries,” Thumper whispered, while eating them. Bambi ate them anyway. They tasted like lightning.
In the shadow of an old-growth hemlock, where the scent of rain-soaked ferns hung low and eternal, a fawn was born not with a whimper, but with a wobble. The forest was a cathedral of green, and
The forest watched. The owl blinked. And somewhere, deep in the cathedral green, a new fawn wobbled to its feet, still unnamed, still spotted, still believing the world was kind. Bambi ate them anyway