Hold On Tight, Little Leaf

Plip. A drop of dew slid off a leaf and landed on the smallest green sprout in Whispering Forest. Pia was a young owl with gray feathers and round yellow eyes, and the sprout was hers. It had pushed up out of an acorn she found in a crack of moss under the old oak, and every night she carried dew to it in a curled leaf. The leaves on the high branches turned over in their sleep, and the forest smelled of pine needles and rain. "Little leaf," she whispered. "Hold on tight."

Then Mama's voice came down from the hollow. "Pia. Come and see." Pia flew up between the branches and into the hollow. The nest was warm and smelled of moss. In the middle of it, tucked under Mama's wing, was a small round thing with its eyes shut, breathing in and out, in and out. "This is the baby," said Mama. Pia looked at the baby. "It's very small," she said. "Smaller than my sprout."

"You're a big sister now," said Mama. "You can help." So Pia helped. She brought a beakful of soft moss to fluff the nest, and the moss went everywhere, a green snow over Mama's feathers and the baby's head. "Shh," said Mama, laughing. "The baby is sleeping."

Then Pia tried a hum, the way grown owls do, and it came out too big and too round. Hoooooo. The baby's face squiggled and the baby made a squawk like a tiny door hinge. "Sorry," whispered Pia. "Sorry, sorry." "Mind your wings, dear," said Mama, kind as ever. "Not yet."

Pia went back out onto the branch. The tree was big and she was small, and the fireflies drifted over the moss below like slow sparks. Suki the squirrel came pattering down the trunk, tail curled up like a question mark. "Your sprout's taller than my tail now," said Suki, nibbling a seed. "It grew," said Pia. "It didn't grow by itself," said Suki. Pia looked down at her sprout. "Mama doesn't need me," she said. "Mama's busy all night with the baby," said Suki. "It's a big job." "Mine's a small job," said Pia.

Then Pia had an idea. A baby owl in a dark hollow needs something warm to look at. Pia flew down to the mossy place where the fireflies drifted thickest, and cupped them gently in her wings. Mama watched her from the hollow, one round eye open. When Pia opened her wings in the nest, the fireflies lifted up and drifted away, one, then two, then all of them, up into the dark and gone. "Please," said Pia to the dark. "Please come back." Only leaves turned over, sleepy and slow.

Pia flew back to her sprout. It was drooping, because she had forgotten its dew. She gave it dew from her curled leaf and whispered, "Little leaf, hold on tight." Then she picked up the whole moss pot in her feet. She carried it slowly, slowly up to the hollow, and set it down in the nest beside the baby's head. The baby made a soft sound and opened its eyes, two dark drops of dew.

Then, out of the dark, something came drifting in. One firefly. Then two. Then a whole drift of them floated through the doorway and settled on the wet moss and the little leaves. They glowed, soft green and gold, and the whole nest lit up like a lantern. "They like it wet," said Suki, peering in from the door. "They like the moss." "Look at that," said Mama.

The baby blinked at the fireflies. The baby blinked at Pia. A tiny foot came out from under Mama's wing, and one feather of a toe curled around Pia's wingtip and held on tight. "Little leaf," whispered Pia. "Hold on tight." "There," said Mama. "You know how to look after small things." "I know how to do the small job," said Pia. "The moss. The dew. I can show the baby." "You can," said Mama. "Every night, if you like."

That became Pia's job. Every night she carried dew in her leaf and set the moss pot in the nest, and every night the fireflies came drifting in to sit on it. The baby grew a little, and the sprout grew a little more. The leaves turned over in their sleep. The forest smelled of pine needles and rain. Pia tucked one soft wing over the baby, and the fireflies dimmed down to a green glow, one, then two, and the hollow was warm, and the tree held them, and everything was quiet.