Experience is Crammed into a Small Rabbit.

She cried tonight, her mother shrunken to a fleshless confused totem confined to a recliner under a lovely print of a single red opium poppy and finishing out the race on dilaudid in the company of a mild yet neurasthenic and piebald water spaniel and a few shifts of rotating pseudo-nurses. And before, father and brother dead in the same year, and 10 seasons or more of drought to come. Her husband, loving but often unsure of himself, still somewhat scarred from the machinations of entering adulthood with the label schizophrenic, something which had turned his native, natural exuberance into a swirling cauldron of doubt and ebullience auto-cancelling itself into helpless dread, and hopeful meandering, both ever unequal, and simmering. Too much on her plate. Never enough sleep. Born into the world with a gay and lovely nature, but now tired. Let's hope a trip to Santa Fe will give her fine blossom a sweet conejo with the scent of tall pines...