Cleo was a little cloud with a very big yawn.
“Oooooh,” she said.
Her yawn was so wide that a sparrow flew past and nearly mistook it for a tunnel.
“Excuse me!” said the sparrow.
“Excuse me,” said Cleo. “I’m a little tired.”
She had spent all day making shade. First, she shaded a picnic. Then, she shaded a sleeping dog. Finally, she shaded a gardener who had forgotten his hat.
Now the sky was turning pink, and Cleo wanted to rest.
But she remembered one last thing.
“The little flower,” she said.
Down in the garden, a small yellow flower had been waiting for a drink.
Cleo floated over the fence. She floated over the apple tree. She floated over the garden path.
Then she yawned again.
“Oooooh.”
A single drop fell from her fluffy chin.
Plip.
It landed right in the middle of the yellow flower.
The flower lifted its head.
“Oh, lovely,” it said.
“Was that enough?” asked Cleo.
“Just right.”
Cleo smiled. Her last little job was done.
She began to look for somewhere comfortable. The top of the apple tree was too scratchy. The chimney was too warm. The flagpole was much too pointy.
“Where does a cloud go to bed?” she wondered.
The sparrow, on his way home, heard her.
“Have you tried the sky?”
Cleo looked up. Above the village, the wide evening sky glowed soft pink.
There was room beside a bigger cloud. There was room near a star. There was even room for her very big yawn.
“That does look comfortable,” she said.
She floated up and settled into a quiet corner.
Below her, the dog curled into a circle. The gardener put his tools away. The yellow flower nodded in the breeze.
Cleo tucked her fluffy edges close.
“Good night, garden.”
“Good night, Cleo,” whispered the flower.
Cleo had one more yawn. A small one this time.
“Ooh.”
Then she rested, soft and still, in the wide evening sky.
