It was old and she was late. There were no steps left to take and too many breaths left to catch. She propped herself up on the vined brick and gazed upward, eyes closed, sweat swirling in her creases. If she didn’t make the journey, no one would, but the days were so hot; age, and the body’s innate yearning for stillness, was beginning to get the upper hand. And frankly, what was the point? Nothing but tradition, keeping forgotten rituals alive for long forgotten reasons. She hoisted the rabbit up off her back and laid it down in the short grass, gave it a quick kiss on the ear, said “good night, petal”, took a quick look at the stars, and the lanes, and the shadowed spring blooms, and began once again the descent.