Luma stood at the river's edge and watched three small leaf rafts float away downstream.
Finn the fox was curled nose-to-tail on his. Hoot the owl sat upright on his, eyes shut. Clov the rabbit lay flat on hers, one ear trailing in the water. The river moved slow and wide — but ahead, Luma could hear it: the low, rushing grumble of the rapids at the Mossy Bend.
She pressed one hoof into the cool mud at the bank. *Drift, drift, drift.* That was the sound of the river. And somewhere ahead — *rush, rush, rush.* That was the sound of trouble.
Luma trotted the forest path beside the river, her rainbow mane catching in the low branches. The water glinted between the trees like a row of silver coins. She stepped over a root, ducked under a fern, kept her eyes on the three small shapes floating ahead.
She found Finn first. His raft had snagged on a cluster of river reeds, spinning slowly. He was still asleep, one paw over his nose. Luma waded in — cool water around her ankles, smooth pebbles underfoot — and pressed her nose gently to the edge of his raft.
She nudged. The raft wobbled. Finn opened one eye.
"Oh," said Finn. "Hm." He looked at the reeds. He looked at the bank. He picked up a stick that was lying on his raft and paddled, very seriously, to shore. Luma watched him step off, curl up on the grass, and go straight back to sleep.
*Drift, drift, drift.* Two more to go.
She found Clov next, further downstream, where a low willow branch had caught the corner of her raft. Clov was awake — just barely — blinking at a small green beetle that had landed on her paw. "Hello," Clov said to the beetle. The beetle left. Clov looked up at Luma. "Oh. Are we not meant to be here?"
Luma shook her head. She found a long fallen branch on the bank — rough bark, heavier than it looked — and stretched it out over the water. Clov grabbed hold, and Luma pulled her raft, bumping gently, all the way to the grass.
*Drift, drift, drift.* One more.
She found Hoot in the eddy just before the Mossy Bend, where the water curved back on itself in a slow, quiet circle. His raft was turning. Slowly. One full turn, then another. Hoot sat perfectly upright, eyes shut, wings folded, turning like the second hand of a very calm clock.
The river was turning him gently — the way you might turn a sleeping child to find them a softer spot.
Luma sat down on the bank. The moss was thick and cool under her. She watched Hoot turn once, and again, and once more. A small brown leaf fell from somewhere above and landed in the water beside his raft. The river carried it in the same slow circle.
Then, very softly, Luma called: "Hoot."
Hoot opened both eyes. He looked at the trees. He looked at the river. He looked at Luma. "I was watching," he said, with great dignity, "for stars."
Luma used the long branch to draw all three rafts together and guide them to the wide, grassy bank at the Mossy Bend. Finn was already there. Clov sat beside him, watching the beetle, which had somehow followed her.
The four of them settled side by side on the soft bank. The river slipped past, murmuring. The forest breathed around them — one long, slow breath. The first star appeared above the tallest tree, and Hoot gave a small, satisfied nod.
