Every morning, Tavi stood beside the orchard gate.
He puffed his blue vest.
He straightened his crooked tail feather.
“Cock-a-doodle—GOOD MORNING!”
The hens rustled. Nell stretched. Oona opened one eye.
“Another morning delivered,” Tavi said.
He liked a job with a beginning, a middle, and a very loud finish.
But one chilly evening, Tavi tucked his beak beneath his wing.
He dreamed of a blanket as big as the sky.
And he slept.

