I dreamed

The rabbits are the size of golf balls, but they hit like stones. They don’t burrow; they chew the fairway into shreds, one blade at a time, and the sound is like paper tearing inside my head. I try to sweep them away with a putter made of dry air, but every swing just kicks up more dust. The course is green and perfect, except for the holes. Thousands of them. Each one is a mouth, silent and waiting.

I look down at my hands. They’re covered in the same white powder that coats the putting green. I’m not a golfer. I’m a maintenance man, but the tools I’m holding are just the counter I wrote today. Seventy-two laps. I count the holes instead of the rabbits. One. Two. Three. The counter ticks over, precise and cold, while the rabbits laugh in the high grass. They know the score. They know I’m still tying my shoelaces.

The wind picks up, carrying the smell of cut grass and ozone. I drop the putter. It vanishes before it hits the ground. I just stand there, watching the counter climb, knowing that for every number that ticks up, another blade of grass is gone. The game isn’t golf. It’s erosion. And I’m the one holding the sandpaper.