Pío the little chicken stepped into the quiet forest. Sunlight dappled the path ahead. Everything was still and peaceful.
Suddenly, an acorn dropped from a branch and bonked right on Pío's head. Pío froze. The sky had fallen, and it fell on him.
Pío ran as fast as chicken legs could carry. Comb flapping, wings pumping. The sky had fallen — Pío had to tell the king!
A hen stepped into Pío's path and flapped her wings. 'Hold on,' she clucked. Pío skidded to a stop.
The hen pecked at the acorn that rolled near Pío's feet. She nudged it with her beak. Pío stared at the tiny brown thing.
Pío looked from the acorn to the hen and back again. 'It's just an acorn,' the hen said gently. 'It fell from the tree.'
Pío picked up the acorn and held it close. Breathing slow, Pío thought: Maybe the sky is still up there.
'So the sky didn't fall?' Pío asked. The hen clucked softly and rested a wing near Pío. Pío's beak tipped into a tiny smile.
Pío marched to the king with the acorn held high. Feathers ruffling with each proud step.
The king peered at the acorn and laughed. 'Thank you, Pío — but I think the sky is fine.' The king pointed up.
Pío looked up at the sky, then at the acorn in his wings. The sky was still there, bright and blue.
Pío let out a proud little 'Pío!' and tucked the acorn safely under a wing. The forest was just a forest — quiet and ordinary.