[Not to be confused with a wombat]
The Badger goes to sleep every night in her secret underground home. She lays in bed for maybe an hour, convincing herself that she can fall asleep before the sun peeks above the horizon. Through her badger window, she can already see that she’ll have to try again tomorrow night. Tomorrow night.
Despite this, the Badger rolls across the bed in an attempt to find comfort; covered in a blanket of darkness and a blanket. She does not discover comfort, but instead the noise of the carrots growing in her front yard: their orange roots pushing up the stems endlessly slowly. Instead of sounding like the miracle of life or nutrition, it resembled an endlessly long sword being unsheathed bit by bit.
The hum of every fly’s wings, the dust particles hitting the windowsill, the sound of her own boy growing all invite themselves to spend the night with the Badger. She tosses and turns tosses and turns tosses and turns tosses and turns tosses and turns until the view from her window becomes pale.
The badger goes to work. The badger falls asleep.