The Cloud Shepherd

High above the rooftops, higher than the tallest tree, there was a tiny house made of wind and starlight.

That's where Sage lived.

Sage had one job. Every single evening, when the sky turned pink, then purple, then deep dark blue — Sage had to move the clouds out of the way so the moon could come out.

Because the moon was shy.

It would not come out if clouds were in the way. Not even one.

So each night, Sage picked up a long, silver shepherd's crook that hummed when the wind blew through it. Hmmmmmm. And Sage walked out across the sky like it was a meadow.

"Come on, clouds," Sage would whisper. "Time to move along."

Now, most clouds were good listeners. The little puffy ones — Sage called them the lambs — they'd scoot right over with a nudge. Whoosh. Easy.

The medium clouds — the rumbly gray ones — needed a song. Sage would hum low and slow, hmmmm, hmmmm, and they'd drift to the edges of the sky like sleepy dogs finding their beds.

But tonight?

Tonight there was a cloud Sage had never seen before.

It was ENORMOUS. It was thick and white and round and it sat right smack in the middle of the sky like a giant pillow that someone had dropped and forgotten.

Sage poked it with the shepherd's crook.

Nothing.

Sage pushed it.

Nothing.

Sage leaned way, way back and SHOVED with both hands and both feet —

— and went right through it!

FWUMP.

Sage tumbled out the other side, covered head to toe in cloud stuff. Hair full of fog. Boots full of mist. Even Sage's eyebrows were dripping.

"Oh, come ON," said Sage.

The big cloud just sat there. Happy as anything.

Down below, Sage could see the little town. Rooftops and chimneys and tiny yellow windows. And in one of those windows, Sage saw something.

A small face. Looking up. Waiting.

Waiting for the moon.

Sage wiped the fog off and thought hard.

You couldn't push this cloud. You couldn't poke it. You couldn't shove it.

So what could you do?

Then Sage heard a sound. The cloud was making a noise. Very soft. So soft you'd miss it if you weren't listening.

It was humming.

Hmmmmmm.

Just like the shepherd's crook.

Sage sat down right on top of that big stubborn cloud. And instead of pushing — Sage hummed back.

Hmmmmmm.

The cloud rumbled a little. Sage hummed again. A little louder.

Hmmmmmmm.

The cloud began to stretch. It got longer. And thinner. Like bread dough when you pull it. Like taffy. Like a scarf being unwound.

Sage kept humming. The cloud kept stretching. It spread itself wide and thin and see-through until it wasn't a wall anymore.

It was a blanket.

A soft, silver blanket draped across the edges of the sky.

And right through the middle — there was the moon.

Big and bright and full.

The moon didn't say thank you. It never did. But it glowed a little warmer when Sage was near. The way a cat purrs when it knows you're the one who opened the door.

Down below, in the little town, the small face in the window smiled and pulled the curtains shut and went to bed.

Sage sat on the edge of the sky, feet dangling over the whole world, the silver crook humming softly.

The big cloud — thin and gentle now — wrapped itself around Sage's shoulders like a shawl.

It was warm.

Sage hummed one more time. Hmmmmmm.

And the moon climbed higher, and the stars came out, and everything below was still.

Goodnight, Sage. Goodnight, moon. Goodnight, big stubborn cloud.

Hmmmmmm.