Rabbits act as Jackson Pollock on my driveway

One night, my unshoveled driveway was a blank canvas. By morning, it was a masterpiece.

I don’t shovel a section of my driveway in the winter. I like seeing the snow sit undisturbed—until the rabbits show up. They don’t know they’re artists, but they are. Their little feet punch lines into the snow, darting in all directions, overlapping, crisscrossing, looping back on themselves.

It reminds me of how I once looked at the sidewalk paths on U of I’s Quad through a modernist lens—Kazimir Malevich’s strict geometry. But this? This is something else. This is Jackson Pollock energy.

Pollock flung paint across canvas, letting motion and instinct lead the way. The rabbits do the same, only their paint is their own movement, their brushstrokes are footprints. They aren’t thinking about composition or meaning. They’re just doing what they do—running, playing, surviving. And in the process, they create something raw, kinetic, and fleeting.

By the time the next snowfall comes, their masterpiece will be gone. That’s okay. That’s part of it. Art doesn’t have to last forever to matter. Sometimes, the best stuff is the stuff that happens when no one’s watching.