The Rabbit's Bad Idea

Clover was a rabbit who thought fast.

Not regular fast. Not "oh, I just had an idea" fast. Clover thought at the speed of a sneeze. Before most rabbits had even wiggled their noses, Clover had already come up with a plan, started the plan, and was halfway through the plan wondering why the plan wasn't working.

On this particular Tuesday morning, Clover woke up in his burrow, stretched his long back legs, and looked out at the meadow.

The strawberries were ripe.

He could see them from here — little red jewels dotted across the far side of Mossy Creek, glowing in the morning sun. And Clover's brain did what Clover's brain always did.

It went zoom.

"I'll build a bridge!" he announced to absolutely nobody, because it was six in the morning and everyone else was still asleep.

Now, there was already a way to get across Mossy Creek. You could walk down the path, around the big oak tree, over the stepping stones, and through the clover patch. It took about fifteen minutes. It was a perfectly nice walk. Birds sang along the way. There were wildflowers.

But fifteen minutes? Clover didn't have fifteen minutes. He had strawberry urgency.

"If I build a bridge RIGHT HERE," he said, pointing at the widest, deepest, most ridiculous part of the creek, "I'll save tons of time."

He grabbed sticks. He grabbed mud. He grabbed a big piece of bark that was definitely part of someone's roof. He stacked and smooshed and balanced and —

"Clover?" said a small voice.

It was Petal, a tiny mouse who lived three burrows down. She was holding an acorn cap full of morning dew, which she'd been about to drink peacefully.

"Oh good, Petal, you're awake! Hold this stick."

"What are you —"

"BRIDGE. Strawberries. No time to explain. Hold the stick higher. HIGHER."

Petal, who was three inches tall, lifted the stick as high as she possibly could, which was not very high.

"Perfect," said Clover, even though it was not perfect.

He kept building. The bridge grew longer and wobblier. It stretched out over the water like a tongue sticking out at gravity.

"Clover," said Petal carefully, "this doesn't look very —"

"It's FINE. It's great. It's the greatest bridge anyone has ever built in the history of bridges. I am a bridge genius."

"It's leaning."

"It's supposed to lean. That's... bridge science."

By now, a few other animals had wandered over, because there is nothing more interesting in a meadow than watching someone do something unwise.

Old Thorn, the hedgehog, sat down on a log and started eating a beetle. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. His eyebrows said everything.

Mabel the bluebird landed on a branch above. "Clover, why don't you just take the path around —"

"Because the PATH," Clover said, placing one paw dramatically on his bridge, "is for animals who don't have VISION."

"The path has wildflowers," Mabel said.

"My bridge has SPEED."

"Your bridge has a crack in it," said Petal.

"That's a FEATURE."

Clover put one paw on the bridge. Then another paw. The bridge groaned like an old door. He took another step. The whole thing swayed to the left.

"I'm doing it!" Clover shouted. "I'm crossing! Everyone watch! This is historic! This is —"

The bridge folded in half.

Not slowly. Not gracefully. It folded the way a sandwich folds when you pick it up wrong, and Clover went down with it — SPLASH — right into the middle of Mossy Creek.

The water wasn't dangerous. It wasn't deep. But it was COLD. And it was full of mud. And there were some very surprised tadpoles.

Clover surfaced, sputtering, with a lily pad on his head and creek mud in both ears.

On the bank, Old Thorn took another bite of his beetle.

Petal covered her mouth with both paws, trying very hard not to laugh. She did not succeed.

Mabel didn't even try not to laugh.

Clover dragged himself out of the creek, dripping and muddy and decorated with pond weed. He sat on the bank, ears drooping, looking across at the strawberries that were still very much on the other side.

"Well," he said.

For a moment, nobody said anything. The creek burbled. A frog croaked, possibly in judgment.

Then Clover's brain did the thing again. It went zoom.

"RAFT!" he shouted, jumping up. "I'll build a RAFT! Forget the bridge — a raft is way better! I just need logs and some vine and maybe that piece of bark — oh wait, that was someone's roof —"

"Clover," said Petal.

"I'll tie the logs together with grass! Grass is strong, right? It's basically rope!"

"Clover," said Mabel.

"And I'll use a big stick to push myself across, like those boats in pictures —"

"CLOVER," said Old Thorn.

Everyone went quiet. Old Thorn almost never talked. When he did, even the wind seemed to settle down and listen.

Old Thorn finished his beetle. He wiped his paws. He looked at Clover with those deep, crinkly eyes.

"Walk with me," he said.

"But the strawberries —"

Old Thorn was already walking. Slowly. Down the path. Around the big oak tree.

Clover looked at the creek. He looked at Old Thorn's small, prickly back moving steadily away. He looked at the creek again.

He followed.

They walked down the path. It was quiet at first, and Clover's legs were twitchy. His brain kept trying to zoom — what if they ran? What if they took a shortcut through the thornbushes? What if —

But Old Thorn walked at Old Thorn speed, and somehow Clover's legs slowed to match.

They went around the big oak tree. Clover noticed it had a knot in the trunk that looked like a surprised face. He'd never seen that before.

They crossed the stepping stones. Clover noticed the water running over them made a sound like a tiny song, each stone a different note. He'd never heard that before either.

They walked through the clover patch — his namesake clover patch — and he realized for the first time that some of the clovers had four leaves. He'd never stopped long enough to count.

And then they were on the other side.

Strawberries everywhere.

Clover looked back across the meadow. He could see the collapsed bridge from here, sticks poking out of the water at silly angles. He could see the spot where he'd splashed in. He could see Petal and Mabel making their way along the same path, chatting happily.

The walk had taken twelve minutes. He was dry. He was clean. He was here.

Old Thorn picked a strawberry, took a bite, and closed his eyes with the expression of someone who has never once in his life been in a hurry.

Clover picked one too. It was warm from the sun. It was sweet and soft and it burst with flavor.

"Old Thorn?" Clover said quietly.

"Mm."

"I think... my bridge was a bad idea."

"Mm-hm."

"And the raft would have been a bad idea too."

"Mm-HM."

"I just thought — I wanted to get here faster."

Old Thorn opened one eye. "You're here now."

Clover looked at the strawberry in his paw. He looked at the meadow, full of morning light. Petal arrived and immediately climbed on top of a strawberry that was bigger than she was. Mabel swooped in and started singing.

And Clover sat down in the warm grass, and for once — just this once — he didn't zoom.

He just sat there, with juice on his whiskers, surrounded by friends, eating strawberries on a Tuesday morning.

And do you know what?

He didn't miss a thing.