The state taxes the body in parts.
Her ear was paid in full last winter. The left one costs less than the right; the rate sheet does not say why. The receipt is folded under the kitchen tile her mother lifted.
Her heart was discounted because she is small. The form reads CIRCULATORY VOLUME / TIER 4 / 60% APPLIED. She does not know what circulatory means but tier four is good and she has been a good rabbit.
Her fur is on the flat-rate plan. They take the levy in the autumn molt. She used to fight this. Now she lets the wind do it.
Her stomach is quarterly. Her teeth are amortized over the lifespan. Her right hind leg was prepaid before she was born, when her mother was still something.
Only the left hind leg remains.
The left hind leg is taxed at the luxury rate. The form is pink. The notice has come for three seasons. There is, the form reminds her, a long tradition of rabbits who do not pay this one. They are not punished. They lose contact with a small thing.
She leaves the form on the table.
In the morning the leg is still there. She lifts it. The fur on the ankle is wet, and she does not remember paying for it. The grass moves through her. The wind moves past her.
Somewhere in the city, a woman is loosening the drawstring of a velvet pouch. She takes the soft thing out and runs her thumb along the foot.
The rabbit feels the warmth of the woman's thumb.
She does not feel the field.