FOLD

In a valley folded from kraft and cream lived Pip, the smallest mountain anyone had ever bothered to measure. The big peaks wore snow like crowns; Pip wore one brave dandelion, and wore it proudly.

One slow morning a cloud drifted down and snagged, ever so gently, on that dandelion. “Oh — hello,” said the cloud, “you’re the first mountain who’s ever been exactly my height.”

That night they counted the punched-out stars, and the moon leaned in low to listen. “Small things see the sky best,” whispered the cloud, “because it’s all they’ve ever looked up to.”

When spring came it came all at once, and flowers popped up around Pip like paper applause. The great peaks slept on under their snow and missed the entire show.