Triskelion Of all the fledgling vegetables in the garden, the rabbits prefer the furled promise of fiddleheads, their hidden cognition. The mystery of the three hares: they share only three ears, yet each of them has two. Circling endlessly, a galaxy, a wormhole, a snail occulted in its shell. The drifting quality of perception. The alchemist rabbit in the moon magicking by mortar and pestle that most elusive elixir. Fibonacci discovered his eponymous sequence by observing rabbit reproduction: nature’s spiral signature, the fractal by which everything grows. It’s a trick, isn’t it? Bursting from a black top hat, wearing a waistcoat? And we’re always running late. Yet spring returns, maddening. The rabbits glean again the garden’s bounty, spirit it away.