Sùffolo squeezes beneath the pile of dry oak leaves. Splash, splash goes the stream. He thought: "I'm not looking."
The sky is black as ink. In the gap between two leaves, a tiny golden dot glimmers. Sùffolo holds his breath.
The firefly arrives, swaying gently. It hums: "Breathe slow, slow." Sùffolo squeezes his eyes shut tight.
Only one eye peeks open. The dark is still there. The firefly presses its glow against the leaf: "Open your eyes. Take a good look."
Sùffolo takes a slow breath. He opens both eyes. And the forest trembles with little golden stars—dozens of fireflies on every branch. His mouth falls open: "Ooooh."
Plop, plop, plop. Sùffolo slides the leaves off his back and stands up, all his quills in the air. He looks up.
The firefly lands on his snout, warm and glowing. Sùffolo gazes at the pulsing little lights. He is no longer down on the ground in the dark.
Step by step, Sùffolo walks along the stream. His quills catch the fireflies' light. He sings along with the water. Above the oaks, the little lights spin, spin, spin.
