In the sunny backyard garden, Sunnylark pressed one little seed into a patch of warm dirt.
She patted the soil down with both hands. A yellow butterfly zigzagged overhead. "Grow, little seed," she whispered.
The next morning, Sunnylark ran outside to check.
But there was only dark dirt and one tiny pebble.
Day after day, Sunnylark knelt by the spot and poured water from her small can.
Drip, drip, drip. She scuffed a shoe in the dust. "Not yet?"
On the third day, she leaned in very close for another look.
Then—pop! A green tip pushed through the soil like a tiny waving finger.
A fat earthworm wiggled up beside it as if saying hello.
Sunnylark laughed, nearly tipping the can, and clapped for the bright little sprout.
After that, she checked every morning and every evening.
The sprout grew taller and taller.
One hot afternoon, the plant drooped. Sunnylark hurried over with cool water.
She tucked in a little stick to help it stand.
The leaves trembled in the breeze. A bee buzzed past her ear. Sunnylark waited very still.
By the next sunrise, the stem stood straight again.
Then one morning, Sunnylark ran into the garden and stopped. The plant had opened into a bright bloom, wide as a smile.
Bees hummed around it. The air smelled green and fresh. She touched one soft petal. "You did it," she said. "We did it."
Sunnylark stood in the warm sun beside the flower, smiling at the spot that was not small anymore.
The little seed had become a tall flower, and Sunnylark stayed a moment longer to look.
