Clover tugs his floppy ears over his eyes in the dark burrow. CRACK — thunder shakes dirt specks down his nose.
He peeks one eye out: the sky over the hilltop is turning dark purple, and the wildflowers are bending, bending, bending.
Clover takes one tiny hop to the burrow entrance. The wind HOOOOPS past and flattens his whiskers; swish, swish, swish goes the golden grass.
swish, swish, swish goes the golden grass, and he presses his paws to the cool dirt. Then one more hop.
Clover leaps over the silver stream. SPLAT! He lands square in a puddle and water squirts up his back, soaking his whole tail.
He sputters, shakes his head in a spray of droplets, and takes one more hop onto the muddy bank.
Clover scrambles up the hilltop where the animals huddle, heads down, snuffling the wet air. He pushes through them, ears still dripping.
and squeaks, 'The storm!' — tiny, barely a sound. The whole hill goes quiet under one long howl of wind.
The animals work together, covering the wildflowers while rain begins to patter softly. Clover sits at the back of the circle.
one ear still damp, paws tucked under him. A single petal drifts down and lands on his nose, and he twitches.
