Mossberry And The Forest Picnic — A Children's Bedtime Story

Mossberry was no taller than a teacup,

With soft green fur and a mushroom hat that bobbed when he walked.

He lived in a hollow tree deep in the woods,

Where the moss grew thick and the air always smelled like leaves and rain.

Today was the day of the forest picnic.

Once a year when the moon was just right and the air was just sleepy enough,

All the forest creatures gathered beneath the great tree.

They brought berries and bread,

Honey,

Ant tea,

And most importantly,

Stories.

Mossberry packed a little satchel with three ripe honey berries,

A crumbly acorn bun,

And a folded leaf to sit on.

As he wandered through the woods,

The sun began to yawn behind the trees,

And everything turned golden and soft.

He passed a sleepy squirrel,

Turning circles,

Trying to remember where he left his nut.

Mossberry pointed him to a burrow beneath a curled root,

And the squirrel squeaked with thanks before curling up and dozing off.

He walked across a patch of velvety moss,

Where fireflies blinked like tiny lanterns.

By the pond,

Dragonflies hovered low,

Wings humming so gently it sounded like someone humming in their sleep.

Mossberry stopped to drink from a dewdrop,

And watched the way the light danced on the water.

Everything in the forest was quieting,

Even the wind.

When he reached the great tree,

The animals were gathering.

Badges and mice,

Owls and moths,

All tucking themselves into soft patches of grass.

The food was shared quietly,

With murmured thank yous and gentle smiles.

No one clinked plates or raised voices,

They simply sat,

Munching slowly,

Listening to the rustle of the night.

When their bellies were full,

The stories began.

One by one,

In voices as soft as moss,

The creatures shared their dreams.

Mossberry told a tale of a secret leaf that could whistle lullabies.

The others nodded,

Eyes drooping.

One by one,

They yawned and stretched and curled.

Under the great tree,

The forest picnic turned into a forest sleep.

Mossberry lay on his leaf blanket,

Eyes closed,

The sweet taste of honey berry juice still on his tongue.

And high above,

The stars blinked slowly,

Listening in.

The forest,

Once again,

Began to dream.