Juniper’s Sky-Scrap Parade — Above the frozen river bend, Juniper carried three bark scraps tucked in her claws, their edges smelling of sap and snow. Read the full story →
Above the frozen river bend, Juniper carried three bark scraps tucked in her claws, their edges smelling of sap and snow. She had carved them all morning with a pine needle, making a tiny fish, a crooked star, and one shape that was supposed to be a moon but looked like a potato. “Perfect,” she said, which made the wind snort through the firs.
She sailed low over the ice to test her sky-scrap parade. The pieces skittered below her shadow—zip, skip, twirl—until another scrap joined them. Then another. Soon the river flashed with little handmade shapes she had not made: a button, a beetle, a lumpy crown.
From a hollow near the bare tree popped a beaver wearing wood curls like a wig. He held up a flat chip with tooth marks. “Trade you a crown for that potato moon?” Juniper laughed so hard her wing feathers rattled. Together they sent every chip sliding down the shining bend, and if you follow the river’s loops with your eyes, you might spot Juniper’s proud potato moon leading the parade.
