The gate hangs open, creaking on its iron latch. Beyond it, birch trunks stripe the shadow in pale white and black. The meadow grass ticks in the warm late sun.
Pipkin grips the gate, knuckles white. He pulls his nose back from the gap. Not yet, he thinks, ears flat against his head. One paw slides forward on the gravel.
The birches lean close, trunks whispering to each other in the dim green. Light cracks through the leaves in thin gold lines. Far ahead, a creek ticks over stones.
Pipkin shuffles through the bees. One paw, two paws, three paws. The whole swarm tightens around his ears, a loud golden hum swallowing every step.
A fat bee bonks right on his nose. ACHOO! The sneeze puffs him forward, skidding past the last bee. His nose is damp, blinking. The creek gleams ahead.
Hop, hop, splat. His back foot slips on the third stone. Now he's sitting in the cold shallows, ears shot straight up, water soaking every strand of fur.
He scoots out of the water and wrings both paws — shake, shake, drip. Four stones left. Three. Two. The creek gurgles a small, patient laugh around the rocks.
Claws scrape loose dirt on the last steep stretch. Up, up, up. He tumbles over the crest, thump, and lands right under the tallest birch.
Below, the whole golden meadow spills open. The gate, the creek, the bee-field — all tiny and still. His ears go quiet. A pale seed pod drops onto his back. Oh, he thinks, very small.
He stretches and taps his back foot on the hilltop stone — tap, tap, tap. A bumblebee hums past. He watches it go. Then he turns and hops down the other side, paws still damp.
