The Rabbit and The Hat

They say it started one dry night, long after the last song had faded and the desert had went quiet.

A coyote howled to no one in particular.
From somewhere in the sagebrush came a rustle — a small white rabbit, dusty from the road, ears twitching to the rhythm of the wind.

The rabbit had been wandering for days — no shade, no water, no end.
But as the moon rose, silver and sharp, it found something half-buried in the dust:

A hat.
Brim wide as the horizon.
Still warm from another man’s story.

The rabbit tipped it upright.
In the crown sat a shallow pool of mezcal — left behind, maybe as an offering, maybe as an accident.

The rabbit leaned in and took a sip.
For the first time in its lonesome wandering, the desert hummed.
The stars shifted.
The line between wild and spirit blurred.

The coyote, curious, padded closer.
He saw the rabbit drinking from the hat —
and for a moment, he didn’t chase.

He just watched.
He understood.

That night, they say, was the first time the desert held peace:
the hunter and the wanderer, sharing a drink from the same brim.