"Do you think the clouds ever get tired of floating, Barnaby?" Leo asked, his voice barely a whisper against the rustle of the wind.
The fence at the edge of Miller’s Farm was more than just a boundary; for young Leo, it was a grandstand. Every afternoon, as the sun began its slow dip toward the horizon, Leo would climb the weathered cedar rails, his boots dangling over the tall, un-mowed grass. 5429006_035.jpg
As the sky turned a deep, bruised purple, Leo felt a gentle nudge. Barnaby was standing now, his head cocked toward the farmhouse where a single yellow light had just flickered on in the kitchen window. It was the signal. "Do you think the clouds ever get tired of floating, Barnaby
Barnaby let out a soft huff, his tail thumping once against the dry earth. To Leo, that was a definitive "no." Clouds had work to do, just like the bees in the clover and the hawks circling the ridge. As the sky turned a deep, bruised purple,