A few quiet minutes before sleep

High above the houses floated a small white cloud. All day long it had followed the wind — past trees, over rooftops and beyond tall towers. Now the sky was slowly growing dark.

The cloud looked around. The birds were finding their branches. The sun slipped behind the hills. Even the wind seemed to speak more softly.

“I don't need to hurry any more,” thought the cloud.

It felt the air come in all by itself, and go out all by itself. The cloud didn't have to do a thing. In, and out. Just as it came.

It drifted a little further. Past a silver moon. Past a star that was only just waking up. The star blinked once at the cloud.

The cloud didn't get bigger or smaller. It didn't need to be anywhere on time. It was allowed to go slowly.

Below, the houses sat quietly together. Behind one window a book was closed. In another house, a lamp went out.

The cloud stayed a while longer. The air came by itself. The air went by itself. A tiny bit forward, then nothing at all.

At last the cloud found a quiet spot beside the moon. There it floated, soft and light. The night carried it on. Very slowly. All by itself.

On a quiet evening, a tiny boat was waiting. It was made of moonlight and had a sail full of stars. The little boat waited by your toes.

First it sailed past one foot — past your heel, the top of your foot and every toe. Then it glided over to your other foot. The water was smooth and the boat rocked very gently.

The star boat sailed on along your lower legs. It didn't need to go anywhere fast. At your knees it rested for a moment, as if it were looking up at the stars.

Then the journey carried on along your upper legs. Whatever the boat came across could just be as it was. Warm or cool. Heavy or light. Or maybe you could hardly feel anything. That was fine too.

By your tummy, the star boat saw a small light. The light moved up and down a little, at its very own pace. The boat bobbed along with it.

Next it sailed past your chest and your shoulders. On each shoulder it left a tiny star. Not to change anything — just to keep you company.

The boat visited your arms, your hands and all your fingers. Then it sailed back, along your neck to your face. Past your chin, your cheeks, your nose and your eyes.

At the very top of your head, the sail brushed softly against the evening sky one last time. The star boat had made its journey.

It moored beside a quiet star and stayed there, gently bobbing. From your toes to your head, everything had been visited. Nothing needed to go anywhere now. The boat rested, and the night grew still.

At the edge of a quiet garden lived a little bird. In the daytime it flew past the bushes, drank from a raindrop and watched the people below.

When evening came, the little bird flew back to its tree. Between two strong branches sat a round nest, made of soft grass, feathers and a small tuft of wool.

The bird stepped inside. The nest knew its feet exactly. Here was a soft hollow. There was the familiar feather. At the edge was the twig that always poked out a little.

The tree swayed slowly in the evening breeze. Back and forth. Not far — just enough to rock the nest gently.

Down below, the leaves rustled. Further away, someone closed a door. Everything sounded the way it often did.

The little bird tucked one wing close. Then the other. It felt the warmth of the nest all around.

Above the tree, the moon appeared. Its light fell between the leaves and made a small circle on the edge of the nest.

“I know every twig here,” thought the little bird. “Here I can be still.”

The garden grew darker, but the nest stayed the same: round, soft and familiar. The tree held the nest. The nest held the little bird.

One more leaf rustled. Then everything was quiet enough. The little bird stayed warm in its own place, while the moon rested above the garden.