Small black fine line rabbit tattoo on the inner upper arm of a person with long auburn hair and a striped top.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Tiny rabbit on the upper arm

Fine line · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A very small rabbit is tattooed on the inner upper arm, seen in profile with long ears and a rounded body. The linework is thin and dark, with a little grey shading in the body. The arm is raised against a soft, blurred grey background, with the striped top and wavy hair filling the left side of the frame.

Fine line Upper arm Rabbit Animal

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The frost has kept the lane hard since Tuesday, and your father sends you out before light with the bucket and the torch that flickers when you tap it. The hens are sulking in their shed. The ewes in the top field have been bawling all night. Beyond the gate, where the stubble runs grey into the hedge, something small sits perfectly still in the rime, ears laid flat along its back, as though it has been told to wait for you.

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It is a rabbit, or a hare's younger cousin, no bigger than your palm. You crouch and it does not bolt. Where the torchlight touches its body the coat is the colour of wet slate, and where it doesn't, the frost has taken the rest. Your grandmother used to say the rabbits of this parish were the last creatures the old lord forgot to count, so they kept their own tally in the snow. You have never believed her, but you have never seen a rabbit sit so patiently either.

You set the bucket down and perch on the cold gatepost. The letter is still folded in your coat pocket, the one from the Norwich firm about the office job you have not told your father about. The rabbit stretches one back leg, shakes the frost from its ears, and lopes into the hedge without a sound. Behind it the field is stitched with tiny prints, running out toward the wood.

When you get back the hens are fed and your father is at the kitchen table with the kettle on. You lay the letter on the oilcloth between the teacups. He reads it slowly, then looks past you to the window, where the first grey light is climbing over the white field. "Snow by Thursday," he says. "Leave the top gate open for the ewes." You do not answer, but you already know which tracks you will follow.