Pella the pterodactyl loved soaring over the valley. Coming down was trickier.
When she landed beside the pond, reeds rustled. When she landed on the ridge, pebbles rolled. When she landed near her friends, everybody stepped back from the dusty breeze.
‘I would like a quieter hello,’ Pella said.
Grandpa watched her circle above the clearing.
‘Try a wider turn. Give your wings time to slow you down.’
Pella tried. She tipped one wing, made a broad circle, and landed with a small thump.
Better, but not quiet.
She tried again beside a patch of moss. This time she held her wings wide and lowered her feet before touching down.
The moss bent. No stones rolled.
Tavi looked up from his drawing in the mud.
‘Oh! Hello. I didn’t hear you coming.’
Pella beamed. She stayed beside him while he drew a pond, a fern, and a very large flying shape.
‘That’s you,’ he said.
As evening arrived, Pella flew home. She made one wide turn above Grandpa’s rock and lowered her feet onto the soft grass.
Grandpa opened one eye.
‘A lovely landing.’
Pella folded her wings. Tomorrow she might make another dusty breeze. New things took practice.
But tonight she had a quiet hello, a drawing to remember, and a soft place to rest.
