The Sleepy Little Snail
In the garden, under a big green leaf, there lived a small round snail. Her shell was smooth and swirly, curled like a tiny sleeping cloud.
The evening was soft. The evening was slow.
The little snail came out to say goodnight. She slid along the cool wet stone, slow and slow and slow.
A drop of dew slipped down.
A moth flew by.
The garden hushed.
"Goodnight, tall grass," the little snail said.
And the tall grass swayed. Swish, swish, soft and slow.
She slid past the daisies, closed up tight for the night, tucked in like little folded hands.
"Goodnight, sleepy daisies," the little snail said.
And the daisies nodded. Nod, nod, soft and slow.
The moon came up round and gold, warm as a candle in the dark. It shone on the leaves. It shone on the stones. It shone on the little snail's swirly shell.
The evening was soft. The evening was slow.
She found a smooth flat pebble, still warm from the whole long day. She climbed up slow. She climbed up soft. She curled her small body near.
The wind breathed low.
A cricket sang.
The garden was still.
Way up high, a small brown bird settled in her nest, tucking her head beneath her wing.
"Goodnight, little snail," the bird called down, soft and slow.
And the little snail felt the warm pebble hold her, felt the cool leaf hang above her like a green umbrella, felt the whole garden breathing all around.
The moon was round. The moon was gold.
She pulled herself in, deep into her swirly shell, curled and safe and snug.
"Goodnight, garden," the little snail said, softer than a whisper now.
The dew was still.
The moon was high.
The garden slept.
And the tall grass swayed, slow and slow. And the daisies nodded, soft and slow. And the little snail rested, warm and gold, curled in her shell beneath the leaf, held by the quiet garden through the whole long night.