The full moon hung low over the carrot patch. It seemed a fever dream, a mirror in which all things could be percieved. In its white roundness one could make out the face of a man. Oriental myth held that the moon bore an image of a rabbit, working a mortar and pestle.
Moon, man, and rabbit. On this fell night, all legends would be proven horribly, horribly true. The garden would know fear down to the tips of its tubers.
