The sun has gone down behind the pine trees, and Little Fox is walking home to her den. She walks softly. The forest is getting sleepy, and Little Fox knows the sleepy rule: soft paws, soft voice.
On the way home, she says goodnight to everything she loves. Would you like to help her? You can whisper it too.
She passes the old mossy stone, round and green and quiet. “Goodnight, stone,” whispers Little Fox. Goodnight, stone.
She passes the stream, which has turned down its babbling for the night. Now it only murmurs. “Goodnight, stream.” Goodnight, stream.
She passes the ferns, all curled up like sleeping kittens. “Goodnight, ferns.” Goodnight, ferns.
Above her, the birds have tucked themselves into the branches, feather to feather. “Goodnight, birds.” Goodnight, birds.
The moon peeks through the pine needles and lays little silver coins along her path, so she can find her way. “Thank you, moon. Goodnight, moon.” Goodnight, moon.
And here is the den, warm and round and smelling like home. Mama Fox is waiting. Little Fox curls up against her, nose tucked under her tail, in the shape foxes have slept in forever — the shape of a cinnamon roll.
“Did you say your goodnights?” asks Mama, in her softest voice.
“Almost all of them,” yawns Little Fox. “Goodnight, Mama.”
“Goodnight, Little Fox.”
Outside, the forest holds still. The stone sleeps. The stream murmurs. The ferns dream their curled-up dreams. The birds are warm. The moon watches over everyone, all night long — the way moons do.
And now there is only one goodnight left. The softest one of all.
Goodnight, you.
🌙 The End 🌙
Sweet dreams, little one.
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