Gus Shares the Moon Pocket — Across the moon orchard, Gus galloped in a bedsheet that flapped whup-whup around his legs. Read the full story →
Across the moon orchard, Gus galloped in a bedsheet that flapped whup-whup around his legs. He wanted to show the hilltop bats his best ghost dash before the crescent moon climbed past the tallest bare tree. Dry leaves skittered like tiny paper boats, and his tail made the sheet ripple in wild waves. “Ready for the swoop?” he barked, and two bats spun beside him, squeaking like hinges with wings.
They looped over the pumpkin cart, under a curl of cloud, and around the old stone well. Each time Gus leaped, something near his hem gave a soft clink, but he thought it was only his collar tag bouncing. The night smelled of apples, cold dirt, and faraway chimney smoke. The bats cheered every turn, and Gus’s happy pant puffed little clouds into the silver air.
Then the moonlight slipped under the ragged edge of the sheet, and a secret pocket nobody had noticed shone open. Inside were dozens of tiny glow-beetle lanterns, tucked there by the orchard mice for the first night parade. Gus stood still just long enough for the bats to each take one, and suddenly the whole sky bobbed with golden sparks. If you peek at Gus’s flying hem, you might catch the pocket that made the orchard go whup-whup with shared moon joy.
