Pip watched from the muddy bank. The ducks swam in a line. Their webbed feet left sparkles on the water.
She flapped her wings. Quack. But the flock swam further away. The reeds whispered a hello only she could hear.
Pip hopped after them. She ducked under a lily pad, trying to reach the back of the line. The water was too deep.
She backed away. Her feathers stood up. The golden light shrank to a thin stripe. The ducks disappeared into the dark.
Pip stood alone by the quiet pond. The last firefly blinked overhead. "I wish I could swim," she thought.
An adult duck glided back. She carried a leaf. "Hold on," she seemed to say.
She set the leaf down. It floated like a little boat. The adult duck nudged Pip onto it.
The leaf drifted toward a warm hollow among the roots. The adult duck swam alongside, humming a low sound.
Pip's webbed feet pressed into soft moss. The hollow was dry and warm. The adult duck settled beside her.
Pip rested her head against the adult duck's side. She listened to the steady breathing. In and out. In and out.
The pond gave back the sky's last pink glow. It shimmered above like a soft blanket over the dark water.
Pip slept. The pond hummed back. The whole world felt quiet, and warm, and hers.
