The Extra Hour
On Sunday morning, the kitchen clock went back one hour. Mango didn't know that. He woke up at his usual time and came to the bedroom door.
Mom heard: hrmm.
Dad heard: hrmm.
And Siena heard:
“It's breakfast time. I know it for sure. My tummy knows.”
“Today we have an extra hour,” said Dad. And he made pancakes.
Kiwi stood by the stove. He didn't jump. Almost.
“I smell pancakes! Are they for me? One? Half? A little piece?”
Tee-ree-ree. Lemony tapped on the terrace window. Dad put a pancake crumb on the railing for her. Lemony ate it, then flew to the trapdoor and sang.
The trapdoor lifted. And out came geese. One, two, three, four, five. White, one after another, waddling.
Mom heard: honk-honk.
Dad heard: honk-honk.
And Siena heard:
“Good morning. We have come from the Goose Quarter. We have all come. We always go everywhere all together.”
The geese walked into the room, one after another, all the way to the window beside the crib. There, next to the snails' silver spiral, each one left a white feather on the windowsill. One, two, three, four, five.
Mango looked at the feathers.
“Feathers,” he said. “On my windowsill.”
And he lay down under the windowsill.
Evening came an hour early. The spiral glowed softly. The feathers stirred gently, with no wind at all. Shhh. Shhh. Like someone rocking a crib.
Tower by tower, the town of Siena fell asleep.
Goodnight, Siena.