Soft ground lay beneath the willow tree near the stream path. Bracken hopped once and stopped. “This part feels nicer.”

Peeba pressed one foot into the ground and lifted his nose. “Mmm. Very forgiving.”

Thimble touched the soil. “Like a pillow.”

Rill slid across the soft patch, not fast and not slow.

They tried other places in the meadow. Some were firm. Some felt scratchy beneath their paws. Then they came back.

Bracken sat first. Peeba settled beside him. Thimble tucked in close. Rill stretched out across the soft ground. The willow leaves whispered above them.

Nearby, small things were moving. Bracken looked around. “Everything is doing something.”

A bee passed. Buzz.

A butterfly moved low through the grass. Flip. Flap.

Two grasshoppers sprang up and landed again. Up. Down.

Peeba stepped carefully to the side. “Mmm. Busy.”

Thimble watched the butterfly lift and settle. Rill slid once more, then stopped.

Little by little, the movement thinned. The grass settled. The wings were gone.

Near the wild patch, something light rested in the tall stems. A small white feather lay in the grass.

The breeze moved once. Bracken stepped near it. “It moved.”

Peeba leaned close and sniffed. “Mmm. Barely.”

Thimble watched the tip. “It is listening.”

Rill blew softly. The feather lifted, turned once, and settled again.

The tall grass whispered. The air was gentle.

And the meadow rested.

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