
Pip and the Still, Still Pond
The marsh was very quiet.
The water was very still.
Little Pip paddled across the pond. Her feet went pat, pat, pat beneath the water. Soft ripples spread out behind her. Then the water went still again.
The will-o'-the-wisps were waking up. One by one, little lights flickered on above the reeds. Pale gold. Soft blue. They floated there, very gently. Like tiny lanterns hung up just for her.
The pond was very still.
Pip paddled on. Slowly, slowly. Past the wide green lily pads. Past the sleeping dragonfly. Past the tall, whispering reeds. Her feathers were warm and soft. The water held her up.
The pond was very still.
She reached the reeds. She slipped inside, where the water was dark and quiet. She found her favourite place. The soft mud. The gentle water. The will-o'-the-wisps glowing just beyond the stems.
Pip tucked her head under one little wing.
She waited.
Up over the water, the moon came up. Round and low and slow. It lay down on the pond in a long, bright stripe. Gold on black. Quiet on quiet.
The pond was very still.
The will-o'-the-wisps bobbed softly. The reeds did not move. The moon did not hurry.
Pip's breathing grew slow. Slow and slow and slow.
The water held her. The reeds held her. The night held her.
The pond was very still.
Goodnight, Pip.
Goodnight, pond.
Goodnight, moon.

