Goodnight, Little Fox

The sun slides down behind the hill. The sky turns the color of plums. Little Fox yawns a big fox yawn, all the way to her ears. “I’ll say goodnight,” she says. “One thing at a time.”

She pads to the old log by the den. “Goodnight, log.” The log creaks its slow creak. Creeeak. “Goodnight, goodnight.”

She looks up at the moths, dancing their last dance. “Goodnight, moths.” The moths answer with their paper wings. Fluff, fluff. “Goodnight, goodnight.”

She listens to the stream, telling its long cool story to the stones. “Goodnight, stream.” The stream hushes low. Shhh, shhh. “Goodnight, goodnight.”

She feels the wind combing through her fur. The wind is going home too. “Goodnight, wind.” The wind sighs in the tall grass. Whooo. “Goodnight, goodnight.”

She blinks up at the first star, small and shy. “Goodnight, star.” The star twinkles once, very politely. Blink. “Goodnight, goodnight.”

Little Fox curls up inside the den. The den smells like moss and warm. Outside, the dark tucks itself around the hill. But her four paws keep twitching.

She looks at her own four paws. They ran all day. They dug and hopped and splashed in the shallow stream. “Goodnight, paws,” she says. “Thank you for all the running.” Her paws don’t answer. They are already asleep.

Her tail wraps around her nose like a soft red scarf. Her ears fold down like little tents.

One eye closes. The other eye peeks out at the sky. Where is the moon? THERE it is. Thin and white, like a smile lying down. “Goodnight, moon,” whispers Little Fox.

And the moon — slow, and soft, and silver — says it back.

“Goodnight, little fox. Goodnight, goodnight.”

The End