In the backyard, the tiny bear digs a hole in the soft dirt. He tucks a striped sock inside and pats the soil flat.
The sun warms his fur. His whiskers twitch as he curls up beside the patch. He drifts into sleep, dreaming of what might grow.
Morning light filters through the grass. The tiny bear blinks awake and scuttles to the patch. A green shoot pokes up from the soil. His tail stiffens.
He counts the shoots. The leaves unfurl and—pop!—a red mitten dangles. Then another pop for blue, and another for yellow.
He tugs gently on the red mitten. It comes free with a soft crunch. The whole garden erupts in pops and rustles.
Mittens of every color burst from the soil, swinging in the breeze. He drops to his haunches, one mitten clutched to his chest.
The tiny bear stuffs his paws into the striped sock. It fits snug, like a glove.
The garden shivers with a hundred tiny mittens. The tiny bear waddles back toward his den.
His steps are light. The world suddenly feels softer.
He reaches his den and curls up inside, the red mitten resting against his paw.
Outside, the garden shivers in the evening breeze. A hundred tiny mittens sway, waiting.
The tiny bear sleeps, dreaming of mittens.