Mossy’s Two Little Taps

Mossy tapped the hollow log. BOOM! The fireflies blinked awake, and Mossy winced.

“Sorry, meadow,” he whispered.

Across the moonlit grass, his friend Brindle lived in a cozy hollow log. Mossy wanted to send Brindle a goodnight message before sleep. Their homes were not far apart, but the meadow between them was wide and soft with clover. At night, even a small sound could get lost among the crickets and rustling leaves.

Mossy picked up a smooth pebble. “One gentle tap,” he said. He tapped his own burrow door. BOOM! The sound rolled over the meadow like a sleepy thundercloud. A little moth fluttered out from under a fern.

Mossy tucked the pebble away. “That’s much too loud.”

He found a dry leaf and tapped it against a flat stone. Tick. The sound barely reached the tip of his nose. Mossy held his breath and listened. Across the meadow, the fireflies blinked, the grasses swayed, and a cricket chirped. But there was no answer from Brindle’s log.

“Too quiet,” Mossy murmured.

He tried again, a little harder. Tick. The leaf made a tiny papery whisper, then folded over his paw.

Mossy looked across the silver grass. Brindle’s hollow log sat beneath an old oak, with a round doorway and a little mossy step. A warm glow shone inside. Mossy imagined Brindle brushing his teeth with a dewdrop and getting ready for bed.

“I’ll find a sound that’s just right,” Mossy said. “Not a BOOM, and not a tick too small.”

He placed the pebble beside his door and laid the leaf on top of it. Then he listened to the night. Crickets chirped. An owl gave a gentle hoo. Somewhere, a seed pod rattled against a stalk.

Mossy’s ears perked up. The meadow was full of sounds. Perhaps one of them could carry a goodnight message all the way to Brindle.

He stepped out beneath the moon, ready to try again.

Mossy found a thin twig and tapped it against a little stone. Tap! The sound was sharper than the leaf’s whisper, but it stopped near the clover patch.

“So far, our song goes BOOM, tick, tap,” Mossy said, counting each try on his toes. “But Brindle hasn’t heard a thing.”

He picked up a seed pod. When he shook it, the dry seeds rattled like tiny beads. Rattle-rattle! The sound danced around Mossy’s ears, then scattered into the night. No answer came from the hollow log.

“Now it goes BOOM, tick, tap, rattle-rattle,” he said. “That’s a lot of sounds, but not the right one.”

Mossy tried a pinecone next. He tapped it gently against a stump. Thup. He tapped it harder. THUP! A few loose scales fell off, and the pinecone rolled into a patch of moonflowers.

Mossy chuckled and retrieved it. “No, thank you, pinecone.”

He sat very still. The moon shone on the meadow, and the grasses brushed together with a soft shhh. Mossy thought about Brindle waiting in his snug log. He wanted his friend to know that he was thinking of him. He could keep trying.

Near the stump, a curled chip of bark lay beside a mossy root. It was light as a feather and shaped like a little canoe. Mossy held it carefully and tapped it with one claw.

Tik.

The sound was soft, but it traveled farther than the leaf’s tick. Mossy’s ears lifted. He stepped toward the middle of the meadow and tapped again.

Tik-tik.

The sound floated across the grass. From beneath the old oak came two soft taps: tuk-tuk.

Mossy’s whole face brightened. “Brindle heard me!”

He lifted the bark chip and tapped it twice, gently and clearly. Tik-tik. Across the meadow, Brindle answered with two soft taps on the inside of his hollow log. Tuk-tuk.

Mossy listened to their little pattern: BOOM, tick, tap, rattle-rattle, thup, tik-tik. The loud and quiet tries had helped him find the just-right sound. He gave the bark chip one last grateful pat, then carried it home.

Mossy set the curled bark chip beside his burrow door, where it would be easy to find another night. The meadow settled around him. Fireflies blinked slowly over the clover, no longer startled, and the moon laid a pale path through the grass.

From across the meadow came a faint rustle inside Brindle’s hollow log. Mossy pictured his friend pulling a soft blanket up to his chin. He smiled and listened.

The crickets kept their steady chirp-chirp. A breeze brushed the tall grass with a quiet shhh. Far above, the owl gave one gentle hoo, then tucked its head beneath a wing.

Mossy slipped into his burrow. It smelled of warm roots and dry leaves. He curled into his nest, tucked his tail around his paws, and let out a long, happy sigh.

“Goodnight, Brindle,” he whispered.

The meadow carried the words softly, though Mossy did not need to send another sound. His message had already found its way across the grass. Brindle had heard it, and their two little taps were resting in the night like two tiny stars.

Mossy closed his eyes. Outside, the fireflies glimmered above the clover. The grasses swayed beneath the moon, and the crickets sang their small, even song.

Across the meadow, Brindle settled in his cozy hollow log. In his own snug bed, Mossy listened to the peaceful night sounds: a leaf brushing the earth, a cricket chirping, the soft hush of the breeze.

His ears grew heavy. His paws grew warm. The moon watched over both little homes as the meadow became still.

Mossy drifted to sleep with a smile, while the two soft taps seemed to linger in his dreams.