Mia and the Yellow Blanket

In a little town at the bottom of a hill, the shadows walk a few steps behind everybody. They catch up at noon. Nobody minds.

Mia had a soft yellow blanket. It had a silky corner she liked to rub with her thumb. Today it was clean from the wash, and Mia wanted it back for tonight.

"It will be dry by sundown," said Dad, pinning it to the line.

Then the wind came. Whoosh! The blanket jumped off the line and flapped over the fence. It landed on top of the tall hedge.

Mia ran to the hedge. She stretched up on her toes. Her fingers touched the air, and nothing else.

"Too high," she said.

She fetched the broom and poked. The blanket slid. Something went boing, and the broom bounced right back at her. A speckled hen named Pip squawked and hopped away. Pip had only come to scratch for worms, and she did not like the broom one bit.

"Sorry, Pip," said Mia.

She tried again. She dragged over her little wagon and climbed in. The wagon rolled, and Mia wobbled, and she climbed out again fast.

Mia sat down on the grass. Her shadow was still on its way to her, a few steps behind. She looked at the blanket. One yellow corner hung down and swayed. It swayed left. It swayed right.

"The wind put you up there," Mia said slowly. "Maybe the wind will take you down."

So she stood under the hedge. She held up both arms, as wide as they would go.

She waited. Pip waited too, one eye on the broom.

Then the wind turned. Whoosh! The blanket lifted, floated, and dropped.

Flump.

It landed right on Mia's head. Everything went yellow and soft and warm.

Mia laughed. She wrapped it around her shoulders. It smelled like sunshine.

The sun was sinking low, and her shadow had finally caught up, wrapped in yellow beside her.