A Cloud With A Business
Most clouds have nothing to do with their afternoons. They drift. They watch crows. They argue with the wind.
Cloud number forty-two had a small business.
He rented himself out, by the hour, for daytime naps. He had a sign. The sign said:
*Soft. Quiet. Free of weather. Bring own pillow.*
His customers were varied. Sometimes a tired postman who needed half an hour out of the rain. Sometimes a school of fish, when the river was too noisy. Once, an entire wedding band that had played for six days straight at a frog wedding.
Today his customer was a tired old badger named Vesper.
Vesper had been digging a new tunnel for three weeks. His paws were sore. His back was sore. He had not slept a full afternoon in months.
Vesper paid the cloud with a small jar of blackberry jam.
"How long do you need?" said the cloud, drifting down.
"Two hours," said Vesper. "Maybe three. I haven't slept in months."
"Take four," said the cloud, generously.
Vesper climbed up. The cloud was firm enough to lie on, soft enough that it didn't hurt your old bones. There was a small dip just where Vesper's head wanted to go. There was a quietness up there that did not exist anywhere on the ground.
Vesper slept.
The cloud drifted gently. He did not bump into other clouds. He did not let any rain fall. He stayed level, the way a good nap-cloud should.
Far below, a girl looked up and pointed.
"Mama,