Morning light spills over the rolling hills, gilding the wildflowers in gold. The stream murmurs its quiet song over smooth gray stones. The whole wide meadow is waiting, soft and still.
Fuzzle unrolls her tiny sketchbook on the flat stone beside the stream. She taps the first blank page with her paw. Tap. Tap. Tap. Ready.
A blue butterfly lands on the page, wings still damp and cool. Fuzzle skids it down, down, down the page before it can flutter away.
"Two hundred friends!" she calls to the whole meadow, grinning wide. Her tail wags back and forth, sweeping the grass like a soft broom.
Crab. Turtle. Heron. "Hello! Hello! Hello!" Three quick pages, done and dusted. Her tail wags so fast the little fish in the stream scatter.
The heron drops its long leg right onto the open book. CRUNCH. Fuzzle presses the dented page under a river rock. "Keep going, Fuzzle," she mutters.
The sun drops low and the long purple shadows stretch across the meadow. The stream turns the color of peach. Everything glows soft and warm.
She tiptoes deeper into the wildflowers, toes finding the soft moss. Mouse. Dragonfly. Snail. Three more little marks. But the last page is still mostly blank.
She slumps, chin on the book, ears drooping low. "Where are you?" she whispers. Then—a tiny gold firefly blinks, blinks again, and lands on the last line. One small circle. One dot. Page full.
She closes the book and tucks it against her cheek. The meadow hums—crickets ticking, stream babbling, wind combing the grass. She presses the cover to her nose. Graphite and clover. Two hundred little friends, all right there.
